If I hold cliché in my hand

like an apple, will I fall

to its seduction? Dare I bite

the peach, perhaps an avocado,

or pursue the nubile temptress

dancing a bare finger’s tip

out of reach? It’s laughable

to think I might escape it.

The original roots still leach

the metaphor from the soil,

while I root about like a pig

snuffling for elusive truffles.

Each word I speak is mine alone;

each word I speak has been said before.

(July 28, 2018)