Ripe

I do not like the way a metaphor smells

   when it has sat around on the counter

   so long that the meaning begins to puddle

   in the bottom of the bag, and the form of it

   begins to grow fuzzy with green

   or orange mildew.

But before that, when it has been around

   just long enough to go a bit sour

   and has the tang of grapes turning

   to wine on the stems; when the skin

   loosens and the juicy fruitness trickles easily

   down your throat, with only a little

   mushy bite —

those are the metaphors that speak

   of warm days in summer,

   and watermelon on the table

   and the phone sitting silent for hours or weeks

   when you wish it wouldn't.

Those are the metaphors that give you

   an uncomfortable feeling

   in your stomach, but only just enough

   that you notice

   and remember it afterwards.