A Taxi Driver’s Lament

It is early morning, I pull on to the station rank, switch off the engine; there is silence, a hazy numbness rings in my head — 5:30 am.

Behind, the sun is beginning to wake, red rays reflect in the rear view. A solitary crow investigates a crumpled chip poke; eying me cautiously it pecks with a determined defiance.

The still quiet morning is disturbed by a train screaming past. Involuntary I watch: it is full of people, going places, their destination the cosmos or somewhere. Platitudes of selfish despair and hopelessness churn.

In the train’s wake, there is silence once again. The crow hops to another discarded scrap — expectantly.

Another fucking day.


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