The Meter's Climb

The back seat hums a low soft drone,

the city's lights, a neon cone.

Not home yet, just another street,

where weary faces softly meet.

The radio whispers, foreign tongue,

a silent story, softly sung.

My own thoughts, a messy thread,

unspooling in my aching head.

He turns to ask, "Which way you mean?"

His eyes in glass, a tired sheen.

A flicker there, I understood,

that universal brotherhood

of hours bought, of fuel burned low,

the endless climb, the meter's glow.

One thirty, then one fifty-two.

Another night, for me and you.