If I Were a Poet

Metaphors are ghosts,
haunting my thoughts,
day and night.

I wish I could just stop
playing with words,
but I’m addicted
to the sound they make
when I throw them in the air.

I guess I’ll learn to live with similes,
like the cousin who comes for a week
and stays all summer.

I said goodbye a dozen times, a dozen ways.
I tried a valediction forbidding mourning.
I assumed Housman’s “Shake hands, we shall never be friends, all’s over” would be direct enough.
With a generous dash of sarcasm I quoted Juliet:
“Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow.”
But poetry still sits in my living room chair
and says “bring me another beer.”

Solemnly yesterday I swore off rhyme;
Today I can’t resist although I’m trying.
That’s it. I’m done. No, wait, one more line.