Circuit B: The Contact of a Taxi Driver

A wide street, a wide mouth, the wind

whispers in the trees and nobody

wants to take this shape for good when

the first agent of grammar arriving this afternoon.

She sits in her bedroom window watching him

filtering the sunlight and breaking memories,

the sun reduces its strength

and remains below the hills,

a little inflamed sore when

the bandage has come off the cut.

She sees the cops walking

towards the dilapidated wooden house.

The dead leaves are on the path. She hears

the rustle of the leaves

as they step on them.

The huge dark door is shut.

There is a rope beside the door. They pull

the rope. They wait for a moment

and listen. Suddenly they

hear a wall clock ticking.

She loses her sight when the hot tea

spilling on her shirt

and everything is

generalized as a fixing vessel

between friends.

She finds a place to position her spindly legs.

There in the Holetown street from 5 AM

to 9 PM he drives a taxi and helps couples

who are helpless

after their accident.

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