A Pièce de Résistance in Ottava Rima
A parking infraction turns epic
1. Petty Crime
I park on Wellington, no legal spots,
but other cars are here, so when in Rome,
and skip upstairs to see my stylist. What’s
a little vice at noon? The wardens roam
these streets, I know it well, the parking bots
that mulct off petty crime. But I am ohm
to power flows, a rule-resistant joker;
the pricks who issue tickets are provoker.
It’s lunchtime now. I leave Hairiffic shorn
and check the car, the street—it all looks safe;
the windscreen’s clear, no paper chits adorn
my Countryman, no po-po there to chafe
my nerve, and so I pause, uncertain, torn—
another twenty minutes? I’m no naif,
my luck can’t last, but tummy’s light as pumice;
I head to Beyrouth Bistro for some hummus.
My business all wrapped up, I gotta scoot,
but as I come off Lyndhurst, there she is—
an officer all taut of belt and boot,
but damned if Central needs the optics, viz.
[a year of protests saw the coppers shoot
at crowds, ten thousand teargas canisters,
a few live rounds, one even struck a fellow;
I watched aghast, relieved the wound was shallow].
So this is why my dander gets up quick;
a mix of indignation, spleen and dread
begets me bolshing like a Bolshevik.
The cop is scribbling on her pad; my head
is hot and pointed down; I’d like to kick
her in the arse and fill her boots with lead.
Instead I make a beeline for the Mini
and designate the cop a trifling ninny.
I guess I’m obligated to inform
you peeps that this is now my fourth offence
in half as many weeks, and that a swarm
of tickets blights my fridge, a consequence
of one who treats infringement as the norm
then offers fear-of-cop in self-defence.
But claiming this in rhyme? I drop a clanger!
It’s truer that I acted out of anger.
I drive off but an inch before the law
comes bully club a-drubbing on my car,
and turning to the source I hear the roar
of outrage from a righteous commissar,
his face ablaze in wrath, a gnashing jaw,
the violence of his fury just bizarre.
I stop, jump out, and try to douse the fire
with apoplexy as a pacifier.
I blow him up. The sergeant looks perplexed,
so I recast my bawling as surprise
(a case of tunnel vision retroflexed).
“What's going down, you brute?” I improvise—
no plan or clue for where I’m going next.
Magoo has been the model for my guise,
but now I’m done with klutzy Mister Quincy,
instead I’ll try a charmer like da Vinci.
“Thankfully, no dent.” I indicate
the roof that took a pounding from his bat,
and then point out my rego’s up to date,
as if to terminate our little spat.
“Your colleague there. I didn’t see her, mate,”
but PC Plod is having none of that.
“We’ve got a CCTV camera running,”
(you lying gweilos think you’re oh so cunning).
Now here is where I make a fool mistake.
The sergeant points his finger at the eaves
above our heads. I look, the gesture’s fake,
there’s nothing there but weathered moss and leaves.
I risk a laugh, aloof to what’s at stake,
and hint I know he’s hoaxing. He perceives
an insult here, his patience fully tested.
He summons two more goons—has me arrested.
2. Trial Rhyme
A year goes by. I’m bailed and arraigned,
the judge bewigged, the cops are in the dock.
The story I’ve concocted and maintained
seems watertight, a combination lock
of pluck and courage strenuously feigned.
My friends and kinsfolk know it’s all a crock
but I prefer the logic of the fiction.
My lawyer, Phillip, can’t rule out conviction.
Returning to my car on Wellington
I saw three boys in blue, which quickly sparked
a tingling apprehension in my skin.
I knew of course I’d left my vehicle parked
illegally and thought if I jumped in
and left the scene before those cops embarked
upon a course of retributive action
that I could then avoid the due infraction.
When we’d conferred, old Phil was circumspect.
“How did you miss her there?” he wants to know.
I mumble vaguely—should’ve double-checked,
then shake my sheepish head and offer faux
regret with shrugs and looks to that effect.
It matters not—Phil still collects his dough,
and though I’d rather not end up in jail
I’ll sing his praises even if we fail.
So what’s the charge? Obstruction of police,
with dangerous driving as an afterthought.
They say the law’s the law and not caprice
but Phil agrees the second charge was brought
to punish me for gall and thus increase
the chances of a guilty verdict: caught
attempting to evade a parking ticket,
the perp abused a traffic warden picket.
So here we are, the pair of us in court.
I’m dressed smart-cazh, a suit and tie for Phil,
a bailiff, clerk, a mate there for support.
The judge nods [off] and Phil begins to grill
each cop in turn—their statements run athwart
the footage that we’re hoping will instill
some doubt about the charge of dangerous driving
and disabuse the court of my conniving.
There was some footage, yes, but in this twist
of irony, the judge can see me drive
away—a hepcat in the groove—the gist
of which is not skedaddling in the jive.
For in my recollection I had missed
how deviously casual I arrive
upon the far side of the camera’s vista
just as the sergeant pops his mental blister.
Phil’s cross-examination takes a turn
towards the gruelling—who looked where, saw what?
The cops collude and hold their faces stern
as each recites, “We told the suspect not
to drive.” The judge, beleaguered, must adjourn
to pick apart this unconvincing knot,
and find his way to satisfied illation.
He needs a [coffee] week’s deliberation.
The days tick by, and then—we lose the case.
The judge convicts me, says he has no cause
to doubt the officers and must embrace
the legal principles on which the laws
are based, for sentencing. His coup de grace?
He shackles me to fifteen days of chores.
And though the driving charge is mitigated,
I leave the courthouse “guilty” and deflated.
A yearlong wait to get such short a shrift
was not the outcome Phil and I had planned.
I’ve paid him well but can’t help feeling miffed
I took his counsel not to take the stand.
I’m heading back to Central. “Wanna lift?”
but minutes later Phil can see first hand
his client wants a jackboot up the jacksie;
my wheel is clamped. He takes off in a taxi.
3. Doing Time
I’m called to Social Welfare for a course
on rules and codes and modes of unpaid work.
But first a public lackey must endorse
me for probation—some intrusive clerk
called Mr Leung, who needs to see remorse
(untainted by an eye-roll or a smirk)
before he recommends me for the service.
I flub my sorry blub as if I’m nervous.
But gloomy Mr Leung knows well the frank
charade—wants résumés and evidence
of spousal succour, how much in the bank,
a chat with loyal friends who must convince
him that his charge is not some septic tank
of contraband and social insolence.
He comes around, decides I’m not a peasant,
and switches mood to something less unpleasant.
Then Mr Leung conveys me to Ms Chan,
a cutesy officer whose dreary role
is Finding Jobs To Build A Better Plan.
Her nasal squeak offends my inner troll—
I spurn her courtesies as best I can.
This anarchistic tactic takes its toll
and she erupts—a screaming babysitter
whose neighbour’s kid is dissident and bitter.
The paint and varnish work is toxic. Fumes
invade these schools and hospitals; they choke
the disused stairwells, lobbies, rooms,
and body’s cavities—a stealthy smoke
that permeates the throat and dooms
the painter to a chronic gloom. Revoke
yourself, get out, stop propping up their system.
Be bold Ms Chan. I know you can resist ’em.
She sends replies, although her civil tone
is mechanized. My emails hence resound
with melody and flair, though often prone
to prank poeticisms—poached from found
accounts of lung disease, a censored zone
on social exploitation, underground
resistance memes and sites on dermatitis.
They poison us with scorn and then indict us.
A sensitivity to fumes and heat
convinces me, Ms Chan, I’m poorly matched
for such cruel circumstance and must retreat
from further misemployment (see attached).
My doctor says it’s best I don’t complete
my nine remaining days as planned. I’ve hatched
a rash and can’t proceed until the summer’s ended,
or find me work with air con recommended.
She does (the punchy emails do it) find
me work in cooler climes—at Food For Good,
a charity (hurrah for humankind)
that gathers unsold grub (a Robin Hood
concern) and gifts it to the poor, the blind,
the down and out (although they really should
avoid the stuff), and folk with needs more urgent.
We work at sinks with penknives and detergent.
We scrape the labels off the jars and dump
the junk food (past its use-by-date) and sludge
of frozen produce into bags, then lump
those into wheelie bins. I blaze the drudge
away like any slave and do not grump
about the work again. My sulky grudge
disperses—I stop feeling so affronted;
I’ve found a way to keep my umbrage blunted.
I hand my timesheets in to Mrs Ng
(Ms Chan has left the job—is that a win?)
at Social Welfare, sign the forms and fling
them down like dice (the questionnaire I bin)
then flip the place the bird. If I were king
I’d oust myself and take it on the chin.
Poetic justice, yes, but hollow sentence;
This poem does not dabble in repentance.
Lesley Spriggs is a New Zealander living in Hong Kong. He holds an honours degree in Japanese and English literature and an MFA from City University of Hong Kong (2012). His poetry has appeared in several New Zealand journals and Japanese expat collections, along with short stories published in the Asia Literary Review and other publications. Occasionally he breaks out with a performance poem and has been known to regularly take part in poetry readings in Hong Kong. In 2022 he made a 63 minute film, or ‘animated scrapbook rock opera’ using 13 songs from HK indie band The Sleeves.