Six forty eight,
sitting in a cab at Madison and LaSalle.
Present in hand, Spongebob encased.
A look at the schedule just to confirm
the train leaves at seven PM.
There’s shade in this canyon
but its still hot as hell.
Smog laden air buzzes over the street.
A man from IT or Accounts Receivable
walks with purpose holding his suit jacket.
The jacket screams that this man cares no more.
We roll along then come to a stop.
Wide traffic cop
shakes her head and talks to a friend.
I let out a heavy sigh.
The yellow eyes of my driver
flash back at me in the rearview mirror.
His eyes stand out against his blue-black skin
and chiseled cheek bones.
A siren whines, drawing near.
The Doppler effect
smashes the sound waves pitching higher
against the rear windows of the sitting cars.
Jean Baptiste, as the license says,
looks around and now
lets out his own audible sigh.
A droplet of sweat rolls down his temple.
Airhorns blow again and again.
Our cab nudges forward
pinning the heat of the engine
against the exhaust exiting
the Crown Vic sitting in front.
A bike messenger weaves on through.
The ambulance grunts pesteringly.
A piece of crap Dodge starts to steam.
The meter silently ka’chings.
A yard of space enters Jean’s view.
Its now seven ‘O’ two.