Old Man Quinney

I’d be sprawled on the back seat
Beltless and free
When small, perched on a child’s seat
A clear view of the wild
Speedometer reaching 50
And feet playing with pedals

In front, a parent
Winding down a dirty window
And old man Quinney
Leaning in
His unshaven chin
Wobbling with the effort 

“Fill her up. Four star”
Words I’d hear like a mantra
Watching the petrol ball bobble
And numbers roll round
Gallons and pounds, just like
The one-armed bandit at the golf club 

Only winners here
As the pleasant fumes invaded
The Zephyr Six:
Money handed over, a brown
Ten bob note, and change given
And cheerfulness 

Now the age of my father
I speak to no one
I can’t remember when I
Last talked to someone I paid
Exchange is a series of beeps
Before I belt home