the taxi stops
and I crawl in, sit
on the sweat-stained seat
the driver's fractured accent
tossing me a where-to
while outside a thousand eyes
bump by like dying salmon
slapping up a too-shallow stream
the window going down
the breeze blowing in
hard and unforgiving
on the chin
more fist than friend
as the salmon search
for the ever elusive
just around the corner
just another block
while I sit on sagging leather
the driver asking where-to
his impatient eyes
drilling holes
in my inability to decide
drive, I tell him, just drive
let the road decide,
and we go
the salmon souls
swallowing our wake
as my tiny yellow ship
slips into shadow
the fish I bought for
dinner ripening beside me
in the stale summer heat

Bruce Stirling's poetry and prose
appear in a number of literary journals.
View his work at http://gnomonclature.blogspot.com

2008 Underground Voices