I tried to find a metaphor this morning
Or a simile at least.
I stood at the bus stop
As the sixohthree rain flecked my face
And I wondered whether to bother
Hunting for a non-metaphorical umbrella
In my symbolic but real bag
And I wondered for a mad moment
Whether a metaphor was, perhaps,
Hiding inside the bag
In a very literal way.

I tried to find a metaphor this morning
Or a simile at least
As the bus emerged at the top of Crouch Hill
Like a... like an...
As the red leviat... as the shiny tin ca...
As the resentf... as Boris's vanit...

The rain spat fiercer and I unzipped
My 'Reduced!' bag to find the umbrella
And there it was:
No umbrella.
The rain was tickling down my back like malevolent kisses now
But I saw there was, at least, a metaphor,
Hiding like a simile at the bottom of my bag,
Shivering and shaking like a puppy
Abandoned in an unfinished November poem.

I found a metaphor this morning
And as I took it out of my bag
The bus sailed right past the stop.