they say a poem without metaphor
is really just a
personal anecdote,
empty, like a
boat run aground
on an unseen
sandbar,
its crew gone,
seeking other fortune.
you and i walk
down to the marina
and find a bench
where we sit and watch
as other boats
are captained in and out
of the
harbor. Their crews cast
dismissive
glances at the hapless boat.
i wonder though if
they aren’t secretly glad
not to be sharing
that fate.
seagulls circle
above like paparazzi,
annoying,
intrusive and unwilling
(perhaps unable)
to leave. Eventually
the sun sets and
the sky explodes,
a shower of gold
and red.
and our eyes,
then our lips meet,
the poem
complete.
12/13/11
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