Fare

The meter ran green in the back of the cab.

He took a wrong left without a word.

I watched streets I didn't know unslab

themselves from the dark — blurred

laundromat, a row of parked cars

I'd never see again, a lit doorway.

Three hours of soft voices and remarks

had used me up. I let him take the long way

without saying so.

Four dollars more than it should have cost.

I watched the city be wrong and slow

through the fogged glass. We stopped. I crossed

his palm with the extra. He didn't explain.

I didn't ask. I tipped him. Got out.

The door shut behind me. Not quite rain,

the air. The meter off. The route

I'd taken here

already gone.