Metaphor Poem

He is a broken sofa
A bent branch of broom
He is a tune heard faintly in the early afternoon
A sprint, slowing, ragged for the Gatwick Express
A yellow plastic drawer
A visit to the soothsayer, dressed to impress
He is an ancient arrow head, caked with dried mud
He is words, chosen for their own sake
Lightly written in anything but blood
He is a zero, a mean nothing
A slight ache in the right wrist
A twinge after supper
Heavy eyelids
A grass snake on the edge of a dream
A distracted kiss
A mined seam