Two-seventeen.
Bell Street Pharmacy, shutters down.
You open the rear door
and bring the cold inside.
You give me Easton Station.
I say the river road is quicker.
You keep one glove on your left hand,
your right one grips the zipper.
No, don’t look back at the grey sedan.
Men like that enjoy a frightened face.
I lock the doors at every pickup.
It’s safer in a moving place.
You ask why I missed the turning.
I say, “Roadworks by the square.”
You ask how long I’ve driven nights.
I watch you in the mirror.
Keep the meter running.
We don’t need to stop just yet.
Keep the meter running.
I know a road they all forget.
Let the bright streets fall behind us.
Let that grey car lose the track.
Keep the meter running.
I’ll decide when we turn back.
You ask about the torn seat pocket,
the little crescent in the foam.
I say a silver buckle made it,
summer nineteen ninety-one.
You ask if Hawthorn Bridge had cameras.
I laugh: “Not on the service side.”
Then your bare hand leaves the zipper,
and you set your phone beside you.
The grey sedan is closer now.
Blue light flickers through the rain.
You say, “Tell me about the buckle.”
I hear my own words once again.
Keep the meter running.
Take the service road you know.
Keep the meter running.
There’s one more mile before we slow.
Let the bright streets fall behind us.
Let the grey car hold our track.
Keep the meter running.
No, we’re not turning back.
My sister wore a silver buckle,
a crescent moon above her shoe.
The papers never named the bridge,
or which side someone drove her through.
I booked the oldest cab on Bell Street.
That grey car knows exactly where.
You locked the doors without me asking.
Now put both hands where I can see them.
We’re almost there.
Keep the meter running.
I can explain what you misunderstood.
Keep the meter running.
Say the bridge again. Nice and good.
Let the dark road fall behind us.
Let the blue lights fill the glass.
Keep the meter running.
Eighteen-forty.
This is where your night ride ends.
Don’t unlock it.
They’re already here.
Keep it running.