Lovely Rita

I see her waiting patiently,
so I dip into my pocket
for a few permissable coins.
But the meter maid still hovers
like a jackal. She sits in
her crazy half car, squeezed
tight into the glass box
that rides upon the tiny
wheels. A pad of tickets
rest in her hand, the pen
perched in her paw. Her bent
badge adorns her as does
the black baton, and cannister
of mace, the radio hooked
to her sleeve in case she
needs to call for help.
She's just doing her
job and doing it oh so well.
The scone crumbs on her
issued shiny coat does not
impede her efficiency one
bit. I respect that. I feed
the hungry meter, that pants
with a red tongue,
a few quarters, then give
her a wave. She scowls
and shakes her head, making
her fuzzy hat tilt even
more, before giving me
a laugh. She moves on.
The sun is hardly up
and the quota longs to be
filled, so she cranks
the engine of her little car,
lights a fresh cigarette
and rolls slowly up the block
to where the line of grey poles
of meters flicker expired
and red. It's feeding time.