A poem requires something concrete
Or even a skeleton if it's discrete.
This one is made of a simple idea
And the image of somebody's feet.
A fellow named Robert walked out in the wood
Walked with more clumsiness than he should.
He was a man with only no feet
And he didn't actually walk to the wood.
Let's try it again for the fun of the play
And ponder abstractions the length of the day.
Think of a potter with wet, dirty hands
But no wheel. And also no clay.
He mainly just sits with his hands in the air
Fondling emptiness, the nothing that's there.
When he has finished there's nothing to see.
Of his pot? Not a soul who could care.