I used to be a metaphor machine.

The sultan of simile.

An elderly woman’s thinning hair,

Falling to the ground like ashes off the burning end of a cigarette.

 

Your untied shoelaces once were

Worms on the pavement after the rain.

Your arms were wires and hooks

And I was a freshwater fish.

 

Billy Collins and I both knew you were

The crystal goblet and the wine.

The way you walked getting stuck in my head

Like too many shots of vodka.

 

A scattered snowfall on the ground

Was a poorly frosted cake

And the stars in the sky

Were marbles, rolling across a sandy beach.

 

My mind was a ferris wheel:

A never-ending, spinning circle

Collecting and releasing strangers.

You got stuck at the top when the power went out.

 

Your voice was the deep-end of a pool.

Cut with chlorine and chemicals.

My hands and feet were bricks when you spoke,

Sinking to the bottom of your vinyl lining.

 

You were a bird, a young child.

You were like the smell of the ocean.

You were as sturdy as the door handle on my father’s truck.

You were a newly sharpened pencil, a striped scarf.

 

You were my old keyboard, with faded white letters.

You were my blue Bic pen, with a chewed up cap.

 

Now I’m just me.

And you’re just like you.

A mundane metaphor.

And a straightforward simile.