Sunday, April 21, 2013

Tough Luck


Just another cabbie night,
customers faceless and
prospects not bright,
I curse my luck at
being interred in a metal coffin
within a shadow world.

I'm hailed outside a King St. nightclub
pissed and loud,
staggeringly drunk,
expensive clothes dishevelled
he says “Take me to St. Kilda"
and lights a smoke,
“Fitzroy St”.
I flip the meter and screech a u turn,
glance at him in the mirror,
he says “I want to drink and never stop!"
I say nothing
just gun the cab,
silently curse the city,
the road,
nightclubs,
drunks,
and myself for the tough luck
the night has dealt me.

He says “You must think I'm a real arsehole"
"I'm not, you know",
he coughs and sobs,
I worry he might spew,
then gathering his wits says
“on Monday my car was stolen,
on Tuesday, my wife left me,
on Wednesday, my mother died,
on Thursday I lost my job.
Tonight I'm getting pissed senseless!"
I pull up outside the
Prince of Wales Hotel,
he tosses me some money,
includes a tip,
then staggers off into that
cruel streetlight night.

I gun the cab and cut like a shark
through the lights and despair of St. Kilda,
a hooker cruising for my next job.

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