I’M NOT A TAXI:
The teen with the three stripe bag at the bus stop looks up impressed
by the song the throaty black machine with the fin sings pulling away
at the crossroads, as Shepherds note the red of the morning sky
before a sun yet to rise over bleary eyes hunched on chairs outside
coffee chains smoking into the morning news.
In the corner of the cafe a relentless mouth floods the room with
animosity directed at a set of ears across the table, bored into
silence, underscored by the cheery hits of classic Motown.
They’ve changed the recipe of the porridge I come for every day.
Now I’m confused, have to think before it’s safe to do so,
consider moving to the coffee chain down the road where the oats are
consistent but the windows look back into themselves, too shut off
from the world the receive the light this pen craves in the morning.