for all the cab drivers and their mad rained-on heads;
driving along under a darkening sky,
the sunless backs of their necks careful & silent,
knuckles steady, rough, tight on the wheel
eyes straight ahead on the grumbling road,
small talk becomes something pleasantly mindless
tossed between a front & back seat;
I find out through many rides
that most drivers are artists:
photographers, painters, musicians and poets,
I seek to find the truths of lives lived
inside their dark cells & wordless thought
but they give nothing away;
there is agony & delight to living
on cold roads that feel like home,
inanaswering only the crackling dispatch,
holding silent witness,
knowing the depths of the broken world
& returning us back home.

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