Image credit: clarksworth

The black cab driver has
the pallid pallor and sunken sockets
of the crack-addicted or chemo-theraped.
In the rear-view mirror
His straight square teeth are reflected;
a tea-stained yellow.
He contorts his mouth to better pick
at the scab on his chin.

Through a dozen postcodes to home.

The boy is a minature of the man on the phone
whose hand he yanks away from
to jump in puddles:
one foot then the other
as if the rain-slicked road
was made of hot sand.

We round the corner into our street.

I see the boy shriek with glee as he jumps up
his mouth a shocked ‘O’ on the down
as the bulbous black tank
darts artfully, miraculously,
around him.

The cab driver sighs.

Then breaks with all tradition by helping with my bags.
I hear the angry, ugly, words of the man
to the boy who stands in his gumboots,
the wet streak of fear
soaking the front of his trousers.
The man returns to his phone as the
black cab drives away.

~ 16 February, 2011

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