Parked Up

Beside the road beneath the lights,
The cars roll past with places to be,
Yet I sit here a feature of the night,
On my own, without purpose, lonely.

The radio mutters to the other few,
"Eagle one three Sid?" and then is gone,
Sweet silence wraps my ears anew,
Then it crackles forth "Call me Wimbledon".

A procession of cars shuffle by my cab,
Some with loud music some with grace,
Jostling for position or extra feet to grab,
Until the lights change and away they race.

These streets never silent are always fluid,
White and red lights dance across my skin.
Still I sit waiting to get to it,
To get moving, to join my road kin.

Time rolls on and I sit poised,
But in my heart the truth is clear,
That despite the passing hustle and noise,
No one needs my Taxi and no one comes near.

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