Vicambulated Words

Walking poems on foot are won
Compoesied on the pavement drum
Now I lope – that is the trope –
With neither pen nor paper, note.

The rhythm of my cushioned heels
Besqueakered on the puddle ‘crete
Allow my inkless arms to swing – and in my mind I sing.

The music of the marching bands lives inside my arcing hands.

I barely stop while traffic shudders,
This’s a feeling unlike others.

This surface-given rhythm tonic
Braces me and, by mnemonic,
Liberates a secret self
Hid in accidental stealth
Given incremental wealth
Of breath and thought – in short –
Of health.