The Ghost of Ernest Hemingway

I saw the ghost of Ernest Hemingway this morning. Sitting on the train and looking at me mean. His face was swollen up, the gray fire of the eyes were almost swallowed by the protrubence of their lids. Someday soon the entire face would be buried under the bloodshot fat. But for now he sits there by the door, dressed for an outting in the wilds of Africa. Done up in khaki shorts, steel toe timberlands and a faded beige vest doing its best to contain the barrel burst of his belly. A full shock of gray hair has been combed neatly, tamed, and offers a stark contrast with the rest of his safari ensemble. He's holding an umbrella between his legs: Red & white stripped. At first I think of the American flag, but quickly realize that it is in fact the color of a Barbers Pole. An unspoken threat of razors & bloodly throats, directed to and completely ignored by the somnambulist passengers shuffling around me. He is not really here, he is a consciousness directed across centurys and continents to find visions here on this my daily commute. The gentleman hunter lost on his dreamquest amongst the spirit world of the 21st century. He is tethered to his coma body, trapped in a story long past, the laughter of the tribes shaman echoes even here in this land of the dead. I nod to him, a small reflex of respect, a conditioned response of submission to the authority of the 'Father'. Phantom habits left over from the Navy. He shoots me a hard look, one that says, 'You've never been to kilimanjaro boy! You've never took aim at the charging Lion or fist fought your way out of Paris.' The train stops. The doors open and I leave the ghost of Ernest Hemingway behind as I rush for the bus just leaving the station.