Hemingway

Today is
Hemingway’s birthday;
He would have been
110 years old.

Rain today, we are told.
Out the window,
The dry grass is gold
In the noontime heat.
Across the street,
A black man in shirt sleeves
Beneath a tree, standing,
Waiting.

A stray dog lopes along,
Sniffs, and moves along.
His coat is bright in the
Dappling light.

Out of sight, a cicada
Screeches and is silent.
Then another screech, slight.
Then the air is quiet.
It is hot and dry and
Waiting.
Everything waits.
But nothing comes.
No rain.