I belong to a village where dogs sleep in the street. Stage hard times parties and haunt bars that never close. Snooze in a hammock; discuss passion with pale tourists, Dream in color and count unseen railroad cars that clickety-clack in the night.
I have fun, romance, adventure – in any order I please. After sunset, I lift a goblet of amber liquid and toast a tropical moon. I ride a bicycle down a ribbon-skinny road and wear tacky tee shirts, Exhale in crimson and orange and fashion my skill in a blue-painted cottage.
I buy pencils by the gross and yellow pads by the dozen, List my profession as writer and my diversion as barfly. I guard cats that nap in the sun while I take cat naps in the shade. I hunt for sea riches in potholed reefs and search the horizon for Moby Dick.
I live a Mardi Gras life far from the cold night air. And shield my mellow existence by hiding out on a dusty island. And pass as a beach bum and drink warmed over coffee from secondhand cups. And with Ernest words I lead story lovers into my, forever holiday, Hemingway life.