The Blue Octopus by Rob Taylor

Every bath toy moulded, tossed, except
the one my son tore open at the tentacle
which pours its hoarded water
from its wound each day and dries.
I hold it up and say “This guy’s a metaphor,”
and sunk amongst the bubbles my son
and daughter understand: a metaphor’s
a useless loose-limbed blob you’ve come to love.

— from Juniper Volume 7, Issue 2