In New York you die in taxis.
A little yellow death.
The honking of crows.
Black puddles, putrid flapping.
Only there are no crows.
They must be pigeons, blacking up.
They honk convincingly and the traffic
begins to flow and breathe again.
You are in his arms. He is loving you alive.
You see the light. It’s a green light
For God’s sake try to make the light.
It’s flashing and the crow dogs are barking
in their little park runs.
Only there are no dogs.
They must be jackals in wiener dog coats.
Your death will make the news.
The paperboys are swooning, “Extra! Extra!”
“You’ll never guess who died in a taxi!”
Stuck in traffic unable to get to even the closest
Starbucks. Only there is no coffee.
It must be dead black water,
like an old Doobie Brothers song
surprising you on the radio.
But that’s not radio and the cabby
isn’t singing to you, he’s singing
to his cousin about the Knicks in Urdu.
He keeps shouting the chorus, “Knick Knock, Knick Knock.”
He has no idea you are dead.
Now here’s the riddle: do you tip when you’re dead?
You can’t take it-whatever! Still it seems a little rude,
to keep driving into the subway token sun,
slipping through its square hole,
while all your passengers
are rattling a hoarse mackerel breath
almost a whisper, “Horsehead Nebula”
and step on it.
