Crackles

Did you know that freshly laid tarmac
crackles like rice crispies,
until it's quieted by the dead thud
of the rollers?
I know this because I walk beside it,
the steaming street,
that gluegun scent,
on one of those rain-but-also-hot days.

The road sounds like it's cooking,
the hot-oil-crisping
of roast potatoes,
or the fizz of butter in a pan awaiting
circles of onion.
A man comes out of his house,
you know,
the type of retired man who likes to watch
good work being done,
to remind him of his past.
I watch too. We exchange a glance,
before off I go again,
another diary crammed to the rafters
but always time to listen to a
road being cooked for serving,
to be garnished with fresh yellow lines,
and a fine sprinkle of falling leaves.