Lives at a walrus RPM,
Like sun, burns yellow.
Wears spots, and chucks
himself along.
On and on.
Goin.
Smiles.
Eight chunky segments;
he doesn’t diet.
What
‘cha
doin?
Wha’s
goin’
on?
Eight, twelves, and other
inconvenient numbers.
He’s going by his own method,
And he’ll see you when he gets there.
Landing 
sweet poem.
I first read “wears spots and chucks” without the comma and imagined for a moment that he wore tiny chuck taylor’s. haha!