The drunk cabbie makes
a wrong turn sixteen damn times.
What’s next? Seventeen.
O you who sees my
chrome wheels as vulgarian,
my fist sees your chin.
Sorry about that.
You’re part of the universe,
just a faulty part.
My hand-held device
listens, speaks, completes me, so
I need you for . . . what?
Tomorrow is fog.
Only today’s truth is clear:
There’s zip on cable.
