In Earnest Fashion

If I could walk, I would walk to the place
where bumblebees buzz about the clover
and I’d prop the shotgun against my face
for an Ernest Hemingway make-over.
I do not joke, for I do not know how
when, year after year, the dream is deferred,
and weary wrinkles grow across my brow,
so let the buckshot have the final word.
An exclamation mark is very apt
when it looks like the shotgun and the shell,
and it would waken the world while I napped
apart from this life, and its unread tale.
I would resign my dreams unto the ground
for the first time creating my own buzz
as busy bees would scatter at the sound
of what might have been, and what never was.

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