speed down Broadway,
the driver
yammering
on his phone in a strange language,
while eating a kabob,
his turban
tilted
and grey,
we strap
ourselves in
while the meter clicks
in rapid
numbers.
his horn
is a constant.
if we don't make it,
i tell her,
taking her white knuckled
hand in mine, it's been
nice knowing
you.
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