he taps his hat

a man on the path,
stares at me and taps his hat.
taps it again
and again,
shaking his head
as I slowly roll by.
where's your helmet he says.
he's hardly older than I am.
stern, with a purposeful
stride.
a glazed stick from home
is in one hand.
he has gone most of his life
feeling the need
to tell others how to live,
what to do.
and even now, on this blue
skied day,
with me, drifting along
the wooded path, hardly pedaling,
to take it all in,
he tells me
to wear a helmet, to be
a better man, like he is.