He's an artful driver,
willing to veer from laid path of pavement-
Picasso, with a steering wheel.
Bare-shouldered women scream their fear
as he belligerently dodges
the shrill horns of his critics.
His father taught him
to call the fares, 'friend'.
Pampered free birds, to his own
way of thinking, birds with the ability
to schedule desire.
His taxi is filled with the things they
can afford to leave behind:
DuMaurier cigarettes, sunglasses,
a canteen of water.
His peppercorn eyes throw flirtatious glances
at the native women who cross his path -
their broad smiles snatch
his sweet chocolate offerings.
A touch of his firm belly would reveal
the washboard patterns of sand
that surround him.
Each day delivers more
obnoxious breezes, heavy with birds.
Into the crevasse of his night they fall,
squawking and melting,
then re-emerging,
dismembered cubist specters.
They torment him with things
he will never see.
Snakes, rabbits, four lane highways.
During the hibiscus yellow light of day
he craves a larger canvas.
Frustration wells; high tide of contempt
flooding his geographic reality.
These 'friends' drive twenty miles just for dinner.
He has never known the twenty-first mile,
driving in never-ending circles
around the perimeter of paradise.
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