Taxi DriversThey lean against the glossy buttocks of their cabs,
kicking free of clutch and brake,
stubble-headed, right arm browner than the left,
legs whitely shocking in their shorts,
their talk, impossible to tell when distance
seals their opinions off like glass.
Five cabs ahead, the leader takes a fare, shifts
into second gear, sweeps
out of the terminal and into startling sun.
Meanwhile they wait,
June sparkling on the river's filth a mile away,
the city folded tightly in their heads.--- Sunday at the Skin Launderette
Seren (Poetry Wales)
Wales CF31 3AE