Honk if You Love Freedom

I’m driving my taxi down La Cholla Boulevard
when I see a large group of people
well dressed and with comfortable
faces and with coffee and other
drinks in hand.
They are protesting something.
One guy holds up a big sign that says:
People are honking right and left, a regular
goose festival.
I press my hand
into the taxi’s steering wheel
but the horn hasn’t worked
in over a year, the boss
won’t fix it, it was hard enough
to get him to fix the turn signals
because he thinks using turn signals
means you’re gay.
Don’t these protestors
have jobs? I think.
How do they pay
the piper?
It looks fun, standing out there
in the sun, laughing
with the other protestors, who’ve all
parked their Volvos and Camrys
with functioning horns and turn signals
up and down
the side streets
where mysteriously they don’t get
That guy with the sign probably thinks I hate freedom
but I can’t stop
to explain.
I’m late
and time is my

Dream Girl

I liked her right away
when she got in my cab
she just had a nice good warm feeling
about her
and she smiled
and told me where she lived.
She was in her
like me
and the place I picked her up was some
kind of doctor.
On the way to her apartment
we chatted about this and
we agreed about most everything
she laughed at my jokes
and generally made me feel
good about myself and life
and it was so
almost felt like I was falling in
love with this woman
like she was the woman of my
dreams, something
I hadn’t felt
in years, and I wanted
to ask her for her
phone number
but didn’t

and when she got out of the cab
at 451 W. Glenn
I watched her walk away
and felt empty
and wondered if I would ever
see her again.

Five minutes after I pulled out of the parking
lot I got a call from

You need to go pick that lady up
who you just dropped off
the dispatcher said.


Because she doesn’t live there, that’s her sister’s
house, she lives at
1125 E. Broadway.

Then why the hell did she tell me
she lives there?

Because, the dispatcher said, she has

I went back and picked her up
and took her to 1126 E.

She didn’t remember me.

My Cab-Driving Friend John

324,000 miles
since he kissed a girl.


Sometimes I park my taxi
outside the natural food store
because I like to go in
and buy a wholesome lunch.
I’ve been in there dozens of times
and I’ve said hello to most of the staff
and even though I’m not on a first
name basis with any of them I felt there
was a reciprocal familiarity.
Today I’m driving my taxi near there
and I see one of the female cashiers
walking down the sidewalk
in her uniform on
her way to work.
I slow down and pull
to the curb while rolling
down the passenger side’s electric window.
“Need a ride?” I smile.
“No charge of course
I’m heading that way
anyway and…”
but before I can finish she turns
looks at me quickly and jumps
            2 feet in the air
then breaks into a run
cutting across somebody’s lawn
and diagonally through
the parking lot and around the corner
toward the natural food store
and I
am left there
slightly wounded
with the sudden urge to rip
into something hot
and greasy.