Email Poem

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Poem


Day after day, week after week, when rush hour traffic’s at its peak,
I’ve had to sit and wait and wait, knowing that once more I’d be late
And have to face the boss’s frown, who lives the other side of town
And can control when he’ll arrive; there are no road works on his drive.
But our road’s down to single file; it’s been like that for quite a while,
With traffic lights at either end, while workmen work out what to mend,
Behind a line of orange cones, oblivious to the drivers’ moans.

It started with a water main. They mended it – it burst again
And cut off electricity, another high priority
So they hired another digger; made the trench a whole lot bigger.
With traffic lights now far apart, commuters started losing heart. 
To town there was no other way, so queues got longer every day.

One day they started filling in, but scarcely did the work begin
Before there came a frantic yell, “The bloody gas main’s gone as well”.
And so they dug it out once more, till it was deeper than before.
They put a sign along the way, “We’re sorry for the long delay,
All caused by things beyond control. One day we will fill in the hole”.

This morning, passing in the car, I spotted something quite bizarre.
With paper hats and champagne flutes and coloured ribbons on their boots
The men were gathered all around, their spades were lying on the ground.
And I could only sit and stare, as “Happy Birthday” filled the air.
I called out, “Who’s the Birthday boy, I’d like to wish him Birthday joy?”
And, as one man, they turned to say, “The trench is one year old today!”

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