Poem: Taxi

Downtown Vancouver – Alan Harris

Taxi

Written May 2, 2017

Listening to Cheap Trick, Come on, Come on.
It is ten to six, and getting light.
I sit writing poetry on the kitchen counter before work.
My clothes turn in the washing machine.
Streets are dark with rain that I never saw.
I slept through it.

Never heard it under tires slick on the street
or washing against the window.

They are empty, anyway, the streets.
There is one bus that goes by.

Uphill away from the evergreens and tidal pools
of Stanley Park, towards the office towers of downtown.

I think of only a cab ride to yours, to see you.
One Saturday night when I was knackered.
I didn’t think I would make it over from Jervis.
I’m not sure why I felt tired, leftover from work, nights out.
Standing on Georgia waiting for the cab.
Opening the yellow door.
Watching the numbers climb up on the box.

Struggling to figure out how the seatbelts
worked in the back seat.

Letting myself in the days I had a key.
This morning, I have used up the last of the milk.
This doesn’t affect anyone else but me.

 

by Wendy Stewart

 

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