The Petrol Station

Semi-derelict wasteland.

Ugly functioning habits.

Men with belly bulging t-shirts.

Grubby, passive-aggressive, 

And rich beyond worth and reason.

Black cars with tuned engines.

HP the price tag.

One man stares and grins.

As another fails to realise,

That fuel is trickling on his boots.

Ancient plastic cones.

Air machine not working.

Pumps card only.

A mystery to the uninitiated.

No charge points yet.

The petrol fumes are hanging on,

As strange creatures in tin cans,

Return to the daily fray.