People
Rita
Parking meters,
still the soldiers of urban islands,
guarding identical squares
of oil spotted cement for timeshare.
I hate them except when they’re broken.
Then they make my day.
Shouldn’t a small concrete rectangle
with no view
be free like the air we breathe?
I shove in my quarters
and instantly feel hurried.
I never think Put in a few extra
so you can take your time.
People without urgency
find other ways.
Instead I think of Lovely Rita
the meter maid
with her little white book
and military cap
who could leave an envelope
on my windshield if I’m late,
though,
she must be into her eighties by now.
It’s the urban drivers’ ritual,
not to be erased by new LCD screens,
modern credit card modules,
or phone app capacity.
It’s still Rita who gives the final nod.
First published by Selcouth Station Sept. 15, 2020