Rush hour

To hail a taxi is to tell the world you are here, yes, wanting to be desired.

Arm stiff with longing, metered conversation: Good, you say. And yourself? 

You click clack in the backseat, chipped teeth rattling like dominoes,

lettuce sewn into your gums. Skeletal forgiveness.

It smells of patchouli and dryer sheets, sterilization, 

yesterday’s coffee inked into today’s leather. 

You sigh remembering the existence of things. There are too many to name. 

And the window squeals as it opens, as the sky spills in,

as the strangers scuffle delicately on the corner of 79th. 

You smile (out of guilt) at the driver who smiles at you. 

His eyes are yolked over with an uninfected existence. 

Meanwhile, the zoo animals wait their whole lives 

to step into the reality you run from.