The Driver To The West End by Tom Holt

You were sure it was all right to leave the car there,
And no-one would mind if we parked on yellow lines -
So I am the driver to the West End
With the matching set of wheelclamps and the ticket on the windscreen
And the sheaf of fines.

And you'll know me
By the sign of the driver to the West End;
Which is not the shattered ribcage
Or the broken arm in plaster and a sling;
Just some deeply-scored abrasions in the paintwork
And some scratches in the wing.

You were sure you knew a short-cut round the hold-ups
That would save us an hour; you knew it in your bones -
So I am the driver to the West End,
Past the big sign marked DIVERSION and the roads closed 'cos of bomb-scares
And the rows of cones.

And you'll know me
By the sign of the driver to the West End;
Which is not the famished visage
Or the lips devoid of water, cracked and parched;
Just a feeling of confusion after going
Seven times round Marble Arch.

You were sure the traffic jams would soon be over
And roadworks in Holborn were nothing to be feared;
So I am the driver to the West End
With the overheating engine and the crumpled, sweaty clothing
And the growth of beard.