Noted

Not really about the surfer
With the California tan
Telling the mash-nosed geezer
With a stogie in his slackened mouth

And customized seat pad in his hand
He was only doing the gig short term,
The old guy recollecting how he’d said
The same thing forty years back,

Or the loneliness of the urine-streaked
Parking lot at 2 a.m.
Awaiting a rumored flight
From the Caribbean

Or what it meant
To drink with my passengers
And lose the whereabouts
Of my mind

Or the painful epiphany
Suddenly seeing through their eyes
Not an interesting guy who drove a cab
But only a hackie in the deadness of his life.

Not any of that or the sudden sense
Of doors closing in the night
But more about up close
Those lips those jeans slung low

The awful hurt
To not embrace
The place of silence
And touch and touch

December 2003

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