Poem of the Week 49

A Fog of Blurbs

Their plumage is a sheen of words whose meanings are the same—
ubiquitous, too often heard, obnoxious birds, but tame,
their mewling call is pecks of praise without one speck of blame.

The truth goes out the window when the blurbs fly into town:
a mist of joyous tidings, thought essential to renown,
their beaks grow long and longer and are uniformly brown.

–Ed Shacklee