i ask the cab driver
eating a kabob
how many
people has he run over
today,
as we race at sixty
miles
an hour down
Broadway.
he uses the wipers
to smear away
a few bugs.
honks his horn
at jaywalkers, lingering
in the box,
staring into
their phones.
he looks into the rear
view mirror
and laughs.
he adjusts his turban.
oh, he says, not many.
not many.
a few tourists maybe.
some pigeons,
some protestors.
not many, but it's early.
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