Friday poem

I'm posting an original poem every Friday for a year.

Strike

I dreamed all my clichés went on strike.

No similes and not a single metaphor

showed up for work.

The clouds in the blue-sky morning

looked nothing like the white cotton

from an aspirin bottle and

my morning coffee was no longer

as bitter as a disinheritance.

It was too quiet, our drums all slack

and the birds locked away.

I knew this couldn't go on.

I negotiated at length with my clichés

but both sides were

as stubborn as

anything but mules.

In the end, I decided I could live without them and

outsourced all my writing to France.

Pas de nouvelles, bonnes nouvelles!