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He sits grim faced
like a carving of blackwood
in a peaked cap,
clutching the wheel
with white gloved hands,
his eyes glued to the road ahead.
Behind him snarls
his tiger passenger
glaring through the window,
peering at the wristwatch
as the city-bound traffic
files into a bumper-to-bumper queue.
Though the limousine
limps like a man
tormented by corns,
the driver remains
as unruffled as a duck
in a pond,
and wades his way into town.
On the back seat
Vesuvius hisses
a last sigh of smouldering -
'John! stop here,
I'll get off-
and darts out,
briefcase in hand,
to keep the first
appointment of the day.
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