A Short Anthem
Susan Stiles
In which I give thanks, to all taxi drivers who have
given me a temporary home, through foreign cities
and familiar ones, who have talked with me when I
did not realize that a conversation was necessary,
but somehow they did, who have told me their life
stories in that space, an abridged confessional, who
have spun through traffic on a golden tether, high
above the streets, slowing down time, like that ride
along the West Side Highway, depositing me,
somehow, at the train station, somehow, before
the hour, or the driver in Paris who understood
my distress, at the end of the line, and the damn
Metro shutting down so early, for such a cosmopolitan
city, and on a weekend, too, and he could have
taken any one of us stranded there, but he opened
his door to me, and I trusted him, through unfamiliar
streets with no lights to guide us, given that I lived
on the edge of that city, at that time, and to all of the
others, too, who have measured their lives, in their
vehicles, like geographers of ancient times,
notwithstanding, of course, the driver in Istanbul,
who sped like fire, thinking he had the entire grand
avenue, to himself, and only, in the last possible second,
did he notice the parked car, in our path, and I, wedged
in and pushed forward, in that awkward space
between the two front seats, with my family all around,
after a fine dinner and raki and watermelon, and my life
flashed before my eyes, no, to him, only bregrudging
thanks, as we skidded, somehow, into another lane,
and then emerged, leaving a raft of city lights behind us.
