the3rdpersonstory

He caught his eye in the mirror, taxi driver

Weary of familiar nights he’d

Driven through so many times,

Violet skin beneath his eye,

Sit still and just say nothing for a while,

Taxi Driver.

He looks up at the mirror, sees

The boy in the eyes of the young man in the backseat,

Sat there in his taxi,

Tears crushed between the stone of his lips

Eyes back on the road,

Taxi Driver.

Gear-change

Not much changed round here,

Not much ‘xcept the songs in their ears.

He sees the boy’s gaze stumble out of the

Window in his left wing-mirror,

Chasing a mirage on the horizon.

The windless night rolls on in

The eyes the mirror holds up to him.,

Taxi Driver.

Wishing for a longer drive,

Emotion shades the colour of the night

While they drive by,

Driver driving like the sky might die,

Don’t let the night sky die,

Still a while from home and urging the

While to while on a little longer,

Taxi Driver.

Few words said, and

Those that were stay in his head,

Taxi Driver.

“I think you’re a good man, I saw what you did.”

“Oh,” said the young man, one leg out the door,

“But you don’t know what else I did. If you only knew what else I’ve done and you wouldn’t be the only one. Goodnight and goodbye, taxi driver.”

The words ring in his head with the closing door.

Tear-stains a relief on the headrest,

Expressed in the reflection above his head.

Long gone, the backseat man, gone to be

Sentenced by the morning’s falling hammer.

Will he lose his head?