The Meter Doesn't Care

Rain on the window. The meter running.

I sit in the back while the driver's keeping

to himself. The plastic divider holds

us apart. The radio speaks in folds

of language I don't know. His hands

are steady on the wheel. No demands

between us. Just the fare.

I am paying for the air

I breathe in this small box.

For time. For the paradox

of two people sharing space

but not seeing each other's face.

The meter makes sense of distance

in dollars. There's no instance

of knowing. Just the meter's

cold arithmetic. The features

of his face I'll never remember.

The rain keeps falling. I'm a passenger

with no story. He's a driver

who forgets me before I leave. The sliver

of human exchange required

to close the transaction. Hired

silence. Paid solitude.

When we arrive, I pay exactly.

No tip. No extra. The taxi acts

without memory. The meter

resets. Another heater

of a body sits down.

The radio plays. The town

blurs soft. The rain

keeps falling. Again

and again, this happens.

The glass between us tightens.

I disappear.