taxi ninety-one

while sitting in
the back seat
of his monte carlo
yellow and black
taxi, number ninety-one,
you strike up
a conversation
with the cab driver
about indian food.
you tell him that
it goes right
through you
like motor oil,
which makes him
laugh and stroke
his thick mustache.
he says something
along the lines
of, do you like
lamb, to which
you reply, I don't
know. maybe. the poem
mary had a little lamb
suddenly runs through
your head
repeatedly, so
to stop this train
of thought you
tell him that his cab
is very clean.
you almost tell him
that it doesn't
smell bad, but
you bite your lip
and begin to whistle.
what is that you are
whistling, he asks,
peering at you
in the mirror with his
giant black eyes.
nothing you say,
just something I'm
making up as I blow
out air. nothing.