Robin

Somehow she always finds me,

her favorite "taxi man",

in front of the Omni,

driving slow down Race

or parked, half-sleeping

beside Saint Peter in Chains.

Doesn't matter; she flags me down

or taps the window: "Hey!"

Honey, where you BEEN?"

like it wasn't just the night before

we cruised these same saintless streets,

her keen and tricky eyes on the lookout

for a man, a certain man

who might be walking, might be standing

in a side street doorway, waiting.

 

A ten or twenty falls on the seat.

"Be right back."

And then she's gone, modern dodger

among the boarded buildings, broken neon,

the shattered glass and shady night.

 

Tomorrow, yes, and then tomorrow.

You don't ask questions --

there are no questions --

or leave the meter running long.

Instead pretend the glass is diamonds,

the smoke is mountain morning,

the unknown cries, the boop-weeee-boop of sirens,

a song, a chant, an unknown jazz;

the litter scratching dirty pavement

hard traveled tumbleweeds,

the engine clicking

the heart of time.

 

Tomorrow, yes, and then tomorrow.

I could sleep a hundred days,

a thousand, maybe more.

 

"Okay, I'm back.

James, take me home."

Moving once again

through town, through light,

the woebegone Ohio

where the blue bridge hums its lullaby,

the rainman bridge,

then new hotels, German brick,

topless bars and shifty men.

 

"Here! Right here."

Already out the door and walking,

slipping through a city crack.

 

I will see you then tomorrow

on the dark side of Saint Peter

where the stars no longer show.