The crackling of hard plastic wheels—more on the way!
Call me a cabbie, patty. For Raab, or Ribaudo,
I’ve seventy pounds on the halt though.
“Where’s breakfast?” Make a right, and another—Mrs. K’s.
Chicka—take this stamp and begone now.
Be patient for this cigarette and my know-how.
Drop your filthys in the basket, slap your receipt on the desk.
What’s the weather? Rain inside a casket, too damp for rest.
I swallow the last two gulps—stone-cold coffee breath.
Two good mornings and the thumps in my chest
picking up pace. “I love everything about credit cards!”
Even the taste?
You’re sharp. Henri has to be every which way in the dark,
Til one, reception, one on, night guard.
I draw thick black circles around the best park,
which is Washington Square—it’s a good start,
I say, and smile. Everywhere else is a farce,
which is all that I care to impart.
