I should be asleep
instead of watching
insomniac cab drivers
wipe the blood and **** and ***
from their black vinyl seats
mobile priests
of the city, they
have heard every confession
in their yellow checkered halls
those who entered, fell from grace
long before they found this space
the penitence
for which they had not asked  
was not given,
the sacraments withheld
while the wine spilled,
the blood flowed, and  
the wipers kept time
like some mindless metronome  
in the Baptismal summer rains…
in his rear view mirror  
were all the stories,
the fallen, the ******  
ignored
while they lapped the asphalt miles  
their lives measured
by the c l i c k  c l i c k of the meter,
until
they made a guilty exit
and said keep the change