Urban Geography
July 28 2009


Something sticky
on the floor mat.
Fabric worn
windows smudged,
where hands touched, noses pressed
all-night heads
slumped against the glass,
sleeping-it-off
a chesty cough
the fog of human breath.

The cabbie sneaks a smoke;
idling, unoccupied,
the lull before closing time.
People leave things behind
he finds,
dropped forgotten treasures,
like empties
wedding rings
lipsticked addresses.

The geography of the inner city
depends on where you sit —
night shift
navigating rain-slicked streets,
or on the back bench seat
of a cab.
Noticing
a brilliantined head,
the back of a neck,
an accent, vaguely menacing.

As street lamps flicker past,
light briefly enters
shadows sharpen, and lengthen
the mat brightens, a second
in the cold electric glare.
I expect condoms, vomit, clotting blood,
incontinent bodily fluids.

But there’s only rotten fruit
I see, relieved,
briskly shifting my feet.



The idea for this poem came from a quick glance at a review of a book called "Taxi!". The review was in the Globe's "buried treasures" section, and the book was published way back in 1975. I didn't read the book. I didn't even read the review. But the accompanying photo caught my eye -- a driver, arm perched in the open window, head facing out and into the camera. Something in her face conveyed intelligence, skepticism, toughness, compassion, and a kind of non-judgmental alertness. Yes, I somehow managed to see all that in a glance! Anyway, it made me want to write about taxis and cities. This is the result.