checkerboard - Dixie

Little birds peck at the crumbs and twigs that have fallen on the checkerboard, on the picnic table, in the backyard, outside.

There he is, grandfather, in the corner by the TV, slumped in his wheeled throne.
I see our shadows, those summers at the picnic table, back years.
Wind blows wild, gold leaves fall, birds cheep and fly away.

Checkerboard calls:
"Whatcha waitin' for, Saul?"

Checkers spin past my tiny fingers. I cry no! grasp the shadow.
He dances, Grandfather, across the rug, a swirl of silver, aa twirl of cane like Fred Astaire at his most dapper.

Giant organ music fills the room, all eyes turn upward where jewels dot the ceiling and the roof pushes into the sky. He straightens his bow tie, Grandfather, tips his top hat, and dances up the wall, through the trees and clouds, and leaps!
"King me!" he shouts.
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