I’m assuming my desire
to be driven somewhere
will be like a siren call
to a taxi driver’s
need to make money.
But I’ve been standing
on this sidewalk for
a half hour with my hand raised.
And none of those
yellow cabs have stopped,
or even slowed a little.
So they’d rather be on their way home
or onto a fare other than mine.
Or could be they sense
that I don’t really want
to go where I’m going to
after all and they’re really
doing me a favor.
I could take a bus of course.
One rumbled by here not five minutes ago.
Slower of course
so maybe it’s not so much the place
but the time that’s not urgent enough in me.
Taxis are on the lookout for genuine passion.
But buses will take ambivalence.
Otherwise there’d be no commuters.
John Grey is an Australian born poet, works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Poem,
Caveat Lector, Prism International and the horror anthology, “What Fears Become”
with work upcoming in Big Muddy, Prism International and Pinyon.