She who reads the meters twice a day eats eagerly four times along the way...

And now, our hearts press hard against our vests
alarmed by the approach, with leaden steps,
of hefty women heaving heavy breaths
and badly straining seams of sky-blue chests
of shirts whose vast expanses often dwarf
a cloud-occluded face devoid of warmth
that never meets the gaze of passers by,
though neither you nor I evade her eye.

Her puffy, gloating glower prophesies
ill-omened bolts striking intrepid guys
who dare to stop in Fairmount or nearby
compelling them to park briefly beside
some curb cut, dumb dumpster, construction crane
or other oddball obstacle that plagues
the parking on each street that runs one way
or has numbers or letters in its name.

She scribbles up the charge upon her scrip
and slaps a scrap right on his windshield, with
sweet dreams of the rewards she's sure to reap
today to grab a fork, though, keep it neat,
not to be forced to scoop it out in clots
on corners of a large Mike and Ike box
with far too few small napkins as defense
so grease gets on her pants and all her pens.

When it begins to rain upon our land
Tickets leave inky stains upon on our hands
and every plate ends up upon the lists
kept by those self-perpetuating cysts,
except for those who've drawn that blessed lot
that designates a dedicated spot
and frees them from the suffocating squeeze
that buys the ladies' Wawa mac and cheese.

It can storm on any beautiful day
it can cost fifty dollars just to stay
for sixty seconds next to some gray tank
that takes up all the spaces at the bank
And eight days later, time to escalate
the state's claim on your wage to eighty-eight
and then begin the incessant requests
that you, not she, cut out a pound of flesh.