The House of Malapropism
I grew up in a house
where it was hard to see
the florist from the trees,
where a bird in the hand
was worth two in your mouth.
I was told not to put
a foot in my ear,
or all of my eggs on one chair.
I was told not to look a horse’s
gift in the eye, that I should
make time to shoot the bees
with friends.
I spent my childhood misnaming
the world around me,
an adulthood relearning
the language of idioms,
not holding a grudge
because after all, blood is thicker
than gin.
[First published in The Comstock Review]
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.