Games…sport. I cringed this morning. Smith’s are not known for their sporting prowess. My sister and I have had conversations about how rules of the game makes a part of our brain freeze. Somehow or other, we have still managed to navigate this world. Although I have no clue what I can use for a featured image today!
Play Up
I was never good at games
The rules numbed my brain
The part preventing own goals
Slipping on autmn wet playing fields
Getting tackled by Charlene Bjueno
The rules of flirtation:
The nod, the feint, the fumble.
Opaque, just as pointless.
Fool that I was, without hesitation
I homed in, disposing of the banal
Which worked out okay –eventually.
Disposing of talk of rules and balls
(except those of your anatomy)
Even without understanding the game
I was not without wherewithal
So why care that I was lousy at darts?
That cricket, golf and tennis were a snore
I was born with arms too short to box
That I would only ever be Olympian in metaphor
I was fluent in reading the human heart
Which comes without instruction manual
Ignores all the collected works of rule books
The whistle blown calling whatever – time or time out
It defies all that gaming gobbledegook
With its definite tendency to play up
Sojourning Smith 