twenty seven miles

the taxi
driver is tired.
he flips
the meter on
and drives sitting on
his beaded seat.
we have twenty seven miles
to go.
a sandwich is on the dashboard.
a soda
in the holder.
he's from
another world.
another continent.
we say nothing
on our way to the airport.
his large brown hands
are draped on the wheel.
it's quiet
in the car
except for the crackling
of his radio.
the slight wind
from his window just
open
enough
to let a cool kiss
of air
waft in.
we are on different paths,
but we've
crossed
and strangely,
I won't forget
him.