Taxied

In a honeybee yellow streak of lightning
Vova ferries the Parascotopetl valley natives
in figure eights around a faltering metropolis.
Chattering the alien dispatcher jargon
feverishly into his headset.
His conversations are always easily interrupted,
his ear is always attentive.

Vova receives little in conversation
and even less in tips,
they stick to "185th Street, fast."
or "Airport, uptown."

Vova receives little in credit
and even less in memorability,
yet he plays Phlegyas to
countless journeys unknown.

In an evergreen flash of exchange
Vova is thanked in the only way he knows.
In a faint, dirty molasses glow he is "In Service" again,
another voyage begins on
another identical street corner.
A humming blare of Russian-Latvian folk cassette
follows his joyous caravan.

Vova's oar thrusts him into fourth gear
and the boat hurtles across Styx Avenue.
For the first time in their short experience
the Parascotopetl glimpse the world.

Vova's smile reflects in rear-view
for his passenger.
No one ever wonders where the rickshawala
is ultimately headed.