By Day I Am a Taxi Driver

April 22, 2008
By day I am a taxi driver. Just one out of a million yellow cars beeping and pushing each other down the street. I go by the name “driver” and press my pants, just one out of a million guys who press their pants, put on their caps, and start the day. I am invisible, but I know you. The woman who checks her watch, the man who spills his coffee. Just one out of a million. Like you. But I hear you.; I know that when the hectic day is over, when you leave your cubicular confines and go home to collapse, you are somebody. Just like I am at night. During the day I drive you down Fifth Avenue, but at night I am released. My saxophone lets it loose, and I become one with the peals and off-beats. By day I follow regimen; I am the driver; this is the routine; I am bound to the clock, to the meter; time is money. But at night the time is melody and rhythm and cigars. The time is mine until the alarm.

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