symphony

Sometimes we run out of things to say
(not the “royal we”—the men and women
who live in his head) and just want to sleep.

Sometimes we’re hungry and you’re not there
to feed us. Sometimes we need a bunch of hugs.
We’re stuck in this dorky man’s head like bugs

stuck to that sticky bug paper, still alive.
Sometimes we wish we each had a car
and could drive to the beach and back

blasting Van Halen. And sometimes—
sometimes we pretend we’re martians
and speak to each other in gobbledygook;

blatherskite; made up words like “floogy”
and “atta toint”; and one of us lowers its head
out of one of his nostrils and waves a tiny hand

to the crowd and collects the applause
we know we deserve. The rest of us recline
on our cushions and imagine taking a bow.