TAXI LOT

a poem by Mickey Mahan

unlike a funeral procession whose

string of sad cars winds from church

to cemetery all the cabs in the taxi

lot sit dark and empty under a wintry

moon meters off and motors quiet

despite all the life that claims the city

at this frozen hour

the blood letting and broken promises

the dropped opportunities and desperate

pleas the reversals of fortune and fortunate

delays all the days that count tomorrow

on their fingers and all the yesterdays that

play Nero’s fiddle with their feet in this

taxi lot the wheel of birth and death is

made of rubber ready to lay

a patch for the right price

straight through the heart

of eternity

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