The Pickup Man

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The sun was yet again hiding, amplifying the breeze.
The road was a ribbon of tarmac that led through Cannock Chase,
And the pickup man came driving –
Driving – driving –
The pickup man came driving, down to the Midland place.

He’d a tweed flat-cap on his forehead, a blazer that didn’t quite match,
And had grown some ginger stubble, that looked as though it might scratch.
His outfit was slightly misleading. His organisation was poor.
All the limits he was exceeding,
The clock he had been misreading,
His pickup was used to speeding, over the tarmac floor.

Over the gravel he ambled along, towards the white wooden entry.
He sighed with relief as the lack of porch-light confirmed that there would be no sentry.
He prodded the doorbell, impatient, then knocked with the back of his hand,
And down the stairs ran the lady,
Fast to the door ran the lady,
She could never be described as brady, as her time was efficiently planned.

The pickup man was late again. He should have arrived at noon,
But instead here he was nine hours later, as late as the glistening moon.
The lady was rather upset by this, and gave him a piece of her mind,
As while he’d still been priming,
The tension had been climbing,
For there’s nothing more vital than timing, and now she had fallen behind.

“Sod this” said the man with the pickup, “I think that this may be goodbye.”
And he hopped straight back in his pickup, shrieking a curse to the sky.
He reversed back out of the driveway, claiming to just be “laid-back”,
And the pickup man went driving –
Driving – driving –
The pickup man went driving, back up the ribbon tarmac.

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