The Taxi Driver

A Poem Of Passing People

In his rearview mirror

Person after person he sees

Sitting in the worn out plastic

Of his bumpy cab’s backseat

Some are talkers, chatty, excited,

Some ask questions of him,

And some talk of themselves,

Or to their own friend beside them

Others look out the fogged-up window,

Watch the city slide by

In a quiet, steady march

Silver buildings against blue sky

Some beg that he go faster,

They are ever in a hurry,

Glancing at their watches,

Weathered faces full of worry

Some grumble at the traffic,

Think of the meter and their cash,

But he only honks his horn

When in danger of a crash

And when the trip is over,

However short or long,

He unpacks their bags

And watches them go along

His weathered cab has occupied

A thousand different faces,

And though he’s always thinking of home,

He always smiles at new places.