GUESSING GAME POEM #3

It’s talkative as a broken tape-recorder. Essential as a fresh breath of air inside a vacuum. It’s incapable of being condensed or abridged or red-penciled to oblivion. Something thrown together in a knitting circle. Roped together by a happy-go-lucky cowboy. Richocheted off the walls of a handball court. It’s the sum of all things. The reverberation inside a piano. It’s touchy feely. Green as Courbert’s ocean or Whistler’s Thames. Take it up your nose and sniff it. Inhale its aroma deep in your mind like hope or faith or charity. Cling to it in winter. In the dark uncertainty of its fall from grace. It’s pas de deux with love beauty death and decay. Hold it tightly. Never let it stroll farther than an infant’s first steps. Draw it into the folds of your existence like water wind and the wobbly path we walk down to Judgment Day among boulders bees barking dogs and the twinkling of faraway stars.