Losing the car at Marble Arch

Pea souper tales of the grey 1950s
With masts in the fog made of railings and glass
Warmth of a carriage with walkways still wooden
The press of the crowd only elbows, not arse

How different impressions can build from a picture
When tickets were paper and seating less sparse
Too dense in the telling, our brains overburdened
The same seven carriages rattle and pass

I sit on the carpet and help with the jigsaw
My grandmother’s fingers too stiff for the card
The story is telling, the fifth time we’ve heard it
She’s losing the car in the fog by the Arch