Locked out in Sydney, A poem

I’m locked out, in Sydney.

Sitting on the street.

Waiting for someone with a key.

It feels like a metaphor,

Except I’m really actually locked out,

In sydney. Like really, without a key.

Keep your silly metaphors to yourself. When you’re locked out,

You’re not calling for Yeats to come around.

You’re calling a locksmith.

[written on an iPhone]