The first poet
had filled his pockets
with smallish pebbles
which he winged at us hard
Pop Pop Pop Pop
and faster
PopPopPopPopPopPop
and every one hit its mark
We were bruised some
but appreciative

The second poet carried a
notebook full of loose leaves
They fluttered up
when she shuffled them
then drifted gently
down about our heads
We couldn't catch them all
but felt the ticklish wind
when they floated near

The next poet
much to our surprise
released birds
so we might observe their flight
accompanied by song
and the occasional
mating call

My turn came
I had nothing up my sleeve
but dreams
a pocketful of question marks
and a stone in my shoe
But all the pretty birds
and leaves and things
came to rest upon my curly head
reminding me that
poetry is inheritance
not sport