I always wonder if Hemmingway
left a part of his soul in Spain,
the same way Shakespeare
did in England or Hughes in Harlem.
Bleeding a city dry to make
ink for their papers.
A song that can't be sung
unless you know the native tongue.
Beats and sonnets,
couplets and scat lines.
Does inspiration lie in the
open fields surrounding Warwick
or simply in a grassy patch,
used for football, outside
Asburry House?
Maybe London will come alive
in my head if I can just get
my thoughts out of Harborne.
Those eyes.
Vast as any Nebraska corn field.
Oh how i wish Missouri was
closer to Birmingham.
Then maybe my soul
could finally
meet my body.
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