Cricket on Slate

Sitting still in mellow sun
jacketed in autumn yellow
with decorative black stripes and spots
on the humble house path
where deadly danger lurks.

My grandon exclaims,
"Look, he's taking a nap."
Perhaps paralyzed by fear, I think,
as we from our imperial height
gawk down on him as spectacle.

"Let's let him sleep
while we go for a bike ride!"
Good advice, and so we do,
yet as I trot breathless beside him,
his training wheels scraping

as I puff and pump my arms,
I can't help but notice splayed
on the bleak, black, cracked Macadam
the imperial road-kill legacy of
smeared worm, beetle, squirrel

before we suddenly arrive
at a satisfying imaginary desitnation,
turn around, begin the journey home,
tearing pell-mell toward
the race he will always win!