Bobblehead

One day, extremely annoyed by sycophants and imitators, I penned this poem.

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Fitting In

I long to be
a bobblehead,

my head so huge
it blows my mind,

springing me from
sense and steadiness.

I want to bounce around
in every breeze,

cool as a quarterback
evading a sack,

my connections to a corpus
tenuous or less . . . or less than that.

I fancy bobbing with the boffos,
traveling with the triflers.

I long to be
a bobblehead.

 

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Barbara Gregorich tackles other annoyances in Crossing the Skyway: Poems.