Metaphor*

Poetry is
like sitting on an anthill.

When the biting starts
you strip off your clothes
and jump in the river.

There is the sting
the itch
the plunge
into cool water

and later
the rolling in mud.

Look at me.
These are red welts.
These are my
private parts.

 

*I wrote this seven years ago.

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Published by

Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner

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