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Taxi at Teele Tavern
White in the fog-white night,
a trail of smoke comes out the back.
Behind the fogged out glass,
tinny music blares and heavier,
a thumb thumps on a steering wheel.
The horn begs only once,
please come.
A woman falls out of the bar,
her eyes, tiny washed-out lights,
trip when the body trips.
She swerves then straightens,
as if she has been hit.
The tavern door floats closed,
sealing off the purple dark light
of the underworld, leaving her
in the leftover smoke.
Tomorrow when her drowned soul
comes to her limbs again,
late for work or love,
there'll be hell to pay,
yet the greatest loss still is
being unable to get home.
When the driver says
You again? She slaps back
with a cool drunk yes.
Mercy, just plain mercy,
whirls through the fog, intoxicating
as the sweet brief skid the taxi
makes on the slick street.
Elizabeth Crowell (Click for bio.)