When still a young child you played with toys

to create stories when by yourself,

but then you grew up, (as do some boys)

and the toys went to a closet shelf,

yet you never really stopped playing,

trading the toys for words and knowledge

and images, too, each new plaything

a hobby horse to ride to college,

and ride beyond, for life can be bland

when you work so much each joyless week

and find magic only sleight of hand

as you move along a losing streak,

and so you play with words, as you may

the action figures amongst the dust,

trying to imbue each weary day

with the joys lost to old age and rust.