Lately, I have been taking a taxi to get to and from work. Well, the other day I decided to construct a poem about one of my taxi cab drivers. It’s inspired by the writing of Sandra Cisneros.
William who listens to static on the radio like it’s a love song.
William whose hair is thick like a wig and curly like a poodle’s.
Who has a faded and warped photograph of a baby on his dashboard
and a rubber-banded portrait of his daughter with shining eyes.
Who talks about meditation as though it were a secret. Who whispers about tattoos like they’re art.
Who tells me every celebrity who has discovered meditation like it’s a prayer or a Xanax and how long they’ve been meditating.
Clint Eastwood. Forty-six years. Jerry Seinfeld. Twenty-twenty years. Katy Perry meditates on tour.
His face is wrinkled like a balled-up note opened up for all to see
with all the wrinkles in tact.
I feel like I owe him promises, a number of years I have been meditating.
Instead I hand him money for the ride and hop out of the taxi cab. My day’s just beginning.