Lovely Rita, meter maid,
nothing can come between us
—The Beatles
The parking meter has ripped me off
again. Granted,
a quarter doesn’t buy a lot
these days, 12 minutes
in the crumbling core,
and there’s little I could have done
in that paltry span:
watch an addict score some meth,
perhaps, or a behemoth
lumber towards me
with his biceps freshly inked;
or maybe spy the hoodied teen
in front of the Cash and Dash,
with all of the windfall
from a senior’s cheque.
Shaking this rusty contraption
accomplishes nothing—neither does
thrashing the part that promises
each Sunday will be free—
which does me no good
in this middle-of-the-week
kind of moment.
I’m yearning for the world
that’s gone away, in which Petula
Clark had sung to go Down-
town;
storefront windows
filled with stock,
the bustle of suits and dresses,
a cop directing traffic,
with seldom a skateboard seen.
I would have waited
for Lovely Rita
to arrive,
the heat from her sultry sway,
her expunging this metal rogue
of the piece of change
it stole from me,
saying it buys a leisurely stroll,
a chance to see the sun
ascend its zenith,
with plenty of time for coffee
at the shop around the corner,
or maybe lunch and herbal tea,
that she’ll join me
once she’s dispensed with
all her tickets.
Andreas Gripp
March 18, 2023
RF Image
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