by Brian Bilston
After an unexpected outbreak of enlightenment
or a heavy pre-bank holiday liquid lunch,
the council adjusted all the parking meters
to dispense poems instead of tickets.
A notice was put up stating that the poems
were to be used in the traditional manner,
and not considered valid unless placed on the dashboard
with all stanzas visible outside the vehicle.
The poems would vary by length of stay.
A haiku was deemed sufficient for a quick trip
to pick up your click-and-collect. For overnight parking,
the Epic of Gilgamesh might billow forth.
Traffic wardens enforced the new regulations.
On-the-spot fines in the form of additional reading
or creative writing classes were meted out
to those who had outstayed their villanelle.
Drivers were not expected to learn their poem by heart
but at least be familiar with its underlying themes
and motifs, and be able to argue convincingly
concerning the writer’s intentions and choice of form.
Once drivers had overcome their initial scepticism,
particularly with regard to the Horatian ode,
the scheme proved to be a spectacular success.
Too much so, as it turned out. Congestion rose
as motorists travelled vast distances to use the meters.
Certain poems became much sought after, and fights
would break out over a rare Heaney or Plath.
A group of drivers formed their own poetry group
and tried to park their cars using their own work.
The council had a rethink. The poetry got ditched
and a new permit scheme was ushered in: no parking
between 8 a.m. and 6 p.m. without a valid root vegetable.
From Days Like These, London: Picador, 2022, pages 283–284.