Small thing. Long life.
Once was a cap. Once was rope.
Once was a slurp. Once was a hope.
 
Leftovers looping, back they all came—
from hands and from mouths,
from streets without names.
 
Melted and knotted and twisted just so,
no mold, no twin, no way it should go.
 
Now it’s a TANGLE—
come jiggle, come dangle.
Clip it. Grip it.
Let it hangle.
 
A key for your keys, a swing for your phone,
a thing on your body, that won’t sit alone.
 
Mini-sculpture that wiggles with you,
always in motion, always askew.
 
The past still peeks.
The future shrugs.
Blobb things don’t follow
straight little tugs.
 
Made by hand.
Made by chance.
Blink once—it’s gone.
That’s Blobb’s dance.