I’m often prone to outbursts of poetry. I really should learn how to write it.
My teacher Miss Larkin
was terrible at car parking
this way and that way swerving and weaving
scratch upon scratch everyday more appearing.
Bushes and Kerb stones her car would dent,
she lost all her hubcaps in a war with a fence.
Her headlights held on by black masking tape
her left indicator she’d somehow misplaced.
The glass in the back was an old plastic bag,
it didn’t quite fit but it was all that she had
Her aerial missing since her drive through car was
and both her front fog lights
she seemed to have lost.
The wing mirror buckled by parking the closest
to a lampost that everyone else seemed to notice
when bought it was shiny
then ten minutes later
it looked liked she’d driven through
a huge cheese grater
yet somehow she managed to arrive every day
having clipped the school gates
in her oblivious way.
And not even people walking their dog
were safe from Miss Larkin as she drove along
up one way streets
(the wrong way of course)
down farmers fields
scattering cattle and horse.
Then one Monday morning she gave me a fright
and I asked if she’d ever considered a bike.
“Oh Douglas, my child. How clever you are,
I’ll buy a Harley Davidson and trade in my car.
I’ll kit myself out in helmet and leathers
and buy a wet suit for the cold winter weather.”
So she scurried off home in her tatty old car,
hit the wall on the way out
and drove into the park,
spinning it around in one last instance
she ran over four ducks
and disappeared in the distance.
© Copyright D. Archer October 2011