Sunday driver

One Sunday driver,
A cold and clammy noon,
A basket laden passenger,
As thin as a spoon.

Crisp click of heels,
On the silent sidewalk,
A slight call to the driver,
Direction-"to the bridge-top"

Skidding on dew-drenched stone chips,
Scattered like dog-litter,
Wheels tripping through the city,
Though the weather be bitter.

First it circled the children's park,
Indicatively,
Winking at rear-view mirror,
He said,"start a family?"

He drove full on fifth gear,
In a very wide arc,
he showed her the statue of Good Lord,
After the children's park.

The Good Lord was the wizard,
Of ancient troubled times,
When water came for free,
And gold came for dimes.

Those were times for sorcery,
With flames and crystal balls,
Those were times for magic,
With potions and voodoo dolls.

So the cabby drove,
To the football ground,
He talked of kicking balls,
With twenty men around.


He drove to the golf course,
To the gentleman's game,
But one of them called another,
An ungentlemanly name.

Quickly he drove away,
To the tennis court,
Told the spoon about the players,
But forgot about the sport.

She insisted on going faster,
To the top of the bridge,
He proposed a short cut,
Just around the ridge.

They went around the theater,
The insides of which she saw,
The melody drifted through her,
She thought that it was raw.

He ushered her to the cab,
Saying she'd be late,
But hungry she said she was,
So that was when they ate.

Next he showed her the garden,
Of roses and he won,
Her heart with just a whiff,
But then he gave her none.

On re-entering the cab,
He sensed that she was miffed,
"We'll be there very soon",he said,
In reply she just sniffed.

Finally they reached the bridge,
But the fare she could not pay,
He solved the matter simply,
By fucking her away.