You’re getting good, he thought to his little boy, speeding ahead.
Feet tapping so lightly, elbows pointing, little fists clenched.
First your red scooter with two wheels at the back, soon a skateboard.
I wonder, could you teach me again, child, for I’ve lost the knack.
And as I follow behind you looking down over mini fields and hedgerows,
I walk on an invisible tight rope, gripped by middle life,
As if everything’s held in the balance.