When Sloppy Joe’s moved onto Duval Street
the bar was never closed. With drink in hand
old Hemingway and friends waltz to the beat;
a Puerto Rico rum danced with the band.
His house on Whitehead Street, when viewed, demands
to know just where he might be writing now.
They say Pauline’s old typewriter still stands
and breathlessly awaits what he’ll allow.
Some say, a figure can be seen, aloft,
through window high. As morning sun sweeps night
away, he may be writing stories oft.
To have what he may hold would be delight.
Oh, Ernest, in this world, you’re still at home,
they say, on old Duval Street where you roam.
(Hemingway did not use a typewriter (wrote everything with a pencil), but he made sure his wives knew how to type!)