I stood, stock, in the road,
arms wide, an amateur Christ,
awaiting another crucifixion,
to be run-down, lifted,
cross-heist,
only to allow a mother,
flagged by three kids, a buggy,
to cross in that turned-in place,
to be safely, again,
path-unhurried:
Stared at, over-steered wheel scowls,
by you school-drop drivers (the worst);
can you please deposit your kids
on a far (distant)
verge.
No wonder your grunty, flaccid, son
demands his own car “for sixth form”:
Your poor lad enjoys
uber-time – Mum’s taxi, always,
the driven norm.
