the thick plastic divider
between me & the driver.
from point A to point B,
a yellow path we’re drawing.
the ethnic music
penetrates the divider,
barely reaches my ears,
blocked by those endless commercials
on the screen.
I can’t see your face,
– well maybe just a part of it.
its reflection on the rearview mirror.
but you can see mine.
my point B at the end,
will become your next point A;
tonight you’re carrying my business.
– will I recognize you tomorrow?
the yellow paths, we’re drawing,
tonight they’re superimposed.
into the single random nexus
of our separate ways to happiness.
a cab, a point, – a kernel
divided by a plastic divider,
on the chaotic curve/path of life.
– on which we’re just the derivatives.