I woke up this morning and slipped into a pair of metaphors,
They don’t fit like they used to.
Elastic a bit frayed, seams not so solid,
They still capture the skid mark residue of old poetry.
Yet, they do, do the job,
If you’ll pardon the pun.
Metaphors and semaphores, like high school friends,
Oh, the joys of adolescent fun.
Stories, essays, memories,
Creative prose, like old worn clothes,
Oh, our histories are plastic,
We’ll shape them to fit our mood,
Sometimes reflecting our food.
The fabric of our undy-phors,
We’d just as soon forget,
Our adventures on a whim.
Each chapter of our knickers,
Frequently preceded by too much liquors.
Not to worry, they stay hidden,
Like silent letters in a word,
I suppose I should wash them this week,
Dirty metaphors can be a problem.