Ode to a Koosh Ball

in the style of Pablo Neruda

Alone,
you sit apart from the other toys,
like some strange alien,
unwelcome, unknown,
the prickly
defensive shape
of a sandspur,
the quiet loneliness
of a sea urchin
who sits
day and night
in the dark depths
of a murky sea.

You offer no
smiling face, no
neon painted surfaces.
You have no
electric lights or
mechanized limbs or
chortling, recorded laughter.
You are stalwart,
apt
to be
overlooked.

Until
one small hand
picks you up,
rolls your sleepy body
from
palm to palm,
gives you a few
quick
tosses,
like a bird
preparing for flight.

And then,
with a laugh,
you are soaring,
all your rubbery limbs
atremble.
You are as
untethered
as a seagull,
as fiercely alive
as a pterodactyl,
as joyful
as a dog
with its head out the car window
in the first summer breeze.

You are
as timeless
as legos,
as infinite
as a slinky,
Loved,
because you are not like
all of the other toys,
and you don't seem
to mind.