10 metaphors

(lying about our apartment)

Scattered in my heart,
and revisited
when the new titles
seem like trite callbacks.
The books by my bed,
my old love interests
I hope to one day
get back to, finish,
commit to until
the story’s finished.

Piling up, mixed up
in junk and offers,
unopened letters
marked time sensitive.
Bills on the table,
all the promises
handed to my wife
for her approval.
Tell me what to sign
and what to toss out.

Laid about in piles,
heaps of putrescence
waiting to be cleansed
in soapy water.
Dirty clothes,
my filthy language;
four letter shortcuts
to elaborate
intricate feelings
I can not express.

Scraps from our cooking
up rich new dishes,
supposed to surprise
and impress, remnants.
Dishes in the sink,
terms of endearment;
the platitudes spoke
in marriage to calm
fears, assuage ego,
to help pass the time.

Leftovers heated
up again, bagged scraps
from last night’s meal,
prepackaged dinners.
The food in the fridge,
the porn on the screen,
no matter how hot
the microwave gets,
nothing much compares
to a home cooked dish.

Gawking from dressers,
tables, window sills,
offering a path
back to my old room.
Our stuffed animals,
doors to childhood;
back to afternoons
hiding underneath
the bed pretending
to be lost in space.

Misplaced and passed out
about the room, lost
beneath chair, sofa,
spilt on the carpet.
Remote controls,
alcohol bottles;
our umbilical
cords to unhealthy
lives, deformed bodies,
slow motor reflex.

Preserve the flavor,
wrap it up to take
home to the puppy
or to your dreamland.
Our hand-knit blankets,
aluminum foil;
saran wrap to top
our tupperware heads
and keep them sealed
all night for freshness.

Kept in the closets
of our consciousness,
tools that lead us to
a clean apartment.
The soap and vacuum,
our songs and poems;
the work we adore
both in the process
and the result, love
we should be tending.

Fat, and hidden next
to the remotes, off
in the corners, slid
under fridge and sink.
Our tired bodies,
the dust bunnies grown
on their own. We could
exercise to find
them. Forget it, they’re
easy to ignore.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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