“The game is a foot, I’m certain of it,”
said the poet who talked the walk datum.
To bloviate down his shorts and long waits
about town he strolled and spoke and sprayed
the populace with one-off quips and quotes.
A foot player he was who climbed high limbs
lofty the poet tree of mystery.
Came he then to a steep stairway and down
he went a long way down a circus clown.
Loose freely from his three-rings born
he returned to la-la-land a surfboard
under his arm covered in salt and sand.
“If life be a game,” he said, “play I will
in waves never still twirl the pencil’s twill.”
“We take it as a given that games are useful, productive, redeeming forms of human experience and expression.”
The Poety Game
The Coming of the Toads 