Taxi

Bruce Stirling
Dec 20, 2019 · 1 min read
Rainer Fetting

the taxi stops

and I crawl in, sit

on the sweat-stained seat

the driver’s fractured accent

tossing me a where-to

while outside a thousand eyes

bump by like dying salmon

slapping up a too-shallow stream

the window going down

the breeze blowing in

hard and unforgiving

on the chin

more fist than friend

as the salmon search

for the ever-elusive

just around the corner

just another block

while I sit on sagging leather

the driver asking where-to

his impatient eyes

drilling holes

in my inability to decide

drive, I tell him, just drive

let the road decide;

and we go

the salmon souls

swallowing our wake

as my tiny yellow ship

slips into shadow

the fish I bought for

dinner ripening beside me

in the stale summer heat

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