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. (c) Michael Stephens
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