Checkered

The subway died in the tunnel.

I waited until the air got thick

then climbed the stairs to the rain.

The car I hailed smells like industrial lemon

and the sweat of a hundred strangers

trapped in the vinyl for a shift.

The driver is a shadow behind the wheel.

We move through the streets like a secret,

the tires hissing against the wet asphalt.

I lean my head against the cold window

and try to calculate the fare

against what’s left in the bank.

On the plastic partition,

someone scratched their name into the dark.

The initials are jagged and deep,

a permanent mark on a temporary ride.

I wonder if they made it home,

or if they’re still out there,

looking for a way to stay.