the magic carpet ride down Broadway

as the yellow

cab

flies down Broadway,

i hang

onto the strap.

the windshield is

covered in some sort

of greasy film,

inside and out.

i don't know how the man

in his turban can

even see

to drive this thing.

he's eating a kabob,

and talking

on his phone to someone

in Afghanistan.

there's a cigarette

burning in an ashtray

in his lap.

he's inches away from

hitting the curb,

the delivery boys on their

bikes,

other cars

and pedestrians.

i begin to pray silently

to myself

and close my eyes.

he looks in his rearview

mirror

and begins to laugh

spitting out

some lamb onto the dashboard.

don't worry, he says.

almost there.

i know what i'm doing,

this is my job.