Is it a game,
a morning workout,
entirely possible you are
merely playing?
round and round and round the rim, up and
down and up and down sheer sheet-ice sides
roping across the translucent lagoon with
consummate ease, all at break-neck speed
more sure-footed than Joe Simpson, more
perfectly balanced than Phillipe Petit
man on a wire between the Twin Towers,
trusting to your not inconsiderable gift
is it entirely possible you are playing
because it’s there, because you can;
who will notice, who cares, who will hear
the chuckling of Him who made you so?
lifeintheshortstaycarpark 