The squirrel poem

There’s something I love about making it across the street.

I know when people see me, they think I’m stupid.

“How hard is it to stay off the road?”

They sometimes swerve around me.

“Look both ways!”

But I am looking both ways. I know I am fast.

I know I can be faster.

I run and run and feel the wind in my tail, or was that metal? But I make it.

And when I make it, I tell myself I’ll do it again.

I do feel tired when I’m in the tree.

How do I know when I’m my fastest?

How do I know when I won’t make it across the street?

But I don’t have time to think about those things.

Because I’ve got to go now. I’ve got to run across the street.

Sometimes I run so fast I trip.

I get caught up on the curb and hit my chin.

I hurry to the tree and catch my breath. Maybe I won’t do it again.

I should’ve been better. Maybe too fast is a bad thing.

But then I have to go.

And I see a road. And I start running again.

I’m sure I can be faster.

Can’t I? I’m always faster.

I almost wait for it. I almost wait for it to be too close.

Why am I waiting? Run fast now.

I make it across the street. Close one.

I was so fast. I bet I can be faster.

But now I’ll rest in the tree.

I’m more afraid of myself than the car.

The car doesn’t change.

But me, I’ve got to be faster.

It’s time to run across the street.

I hear it coming closer.

I’m about to leap across the pavement but I see something.

What used to be a bushy tail, flat against the road.

Is it me?

I bet they were fast.

But they weren’t fast enough.

But I can’t think about it now.

I’ve got to run across the street.