The car enthusiasts amass below,
around a seventies gas guzzler.
The bonnet’s raised, the engine’s revs bellow

as I charge at full gallop down the stairs,
to demand that they play their games elsewhere
instead of waking up my baby daughter.

Twelve middle aged businessman stare
back at me like surly boy racers,
but that analogy just isn’t fair

as Jack the Lads will rev their souped up cars
in city limit, desolate car parks
beyond earshot of family homes like ours.

They kill the engine, head back to the bar
to find new ways to over compensate
for libidos that wane over the years

unlike the cars they choose to salivate
over in public. Two hours pass by
before the car’s owner retakes his seat

and revs the engine full blast before I
can make it to the rattling window
as he’s accelerating out of sight

as limp-dicked Clarkson clones are wont to do.


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