Taxi Driver

Taxi Driver,

I see your eyes in your rear-view mirror

Covered by a hat and sunglasses.

Who are you?

Your world is green and yellow and red,

But mostly yellow.

And blackish blue.

Your fingers stick to the steering wheel,

And your feet to the floor.

You hear

Whistles and shouts and hands in the air.

Breaking and stopping.

And going and going.

This is your life…

Mother and Father and Son fill in the seats behind you.

Mother is quiet,

With a Burberry-wrapped neck and leather-bound feet.

Father is frank,

With a trench coat and deep pockets.

Son is discomforting: he makes lasting eye contact in the rear-view.

Can he see through your glasses?

What is your name, Taxi Driver?

Mother, Father, Son, would never ask.

Yet Son is blinding in the rear-view,

His gaze steady,

Unreadable.

His voice startles you,

Shattering silence like boots shatter ice.

“In World War I, the taxi drivers won the first battle of Marne for France.”

Son speaks to no one in particular.

Mother is on her phone and Father is watching the road.

“They saved France…”

Slamming doors and empty seats.

Jingling purses and walking feet.

Waving hands and whistling lips.

Opening doors and no-good tips.

This is all you get for saving France.