If only it had not rained
the sky black and wet as
we hurried across streets.
Perhaps had he worn a
light coat it would have
been easier to spot.
Maybe if the cab driver
were not so tired, if
headlights shone brighter.
How many hundreds of things
lead him to that corner.
For instance staying late
to check computer printouts.
The cab driver had felt like
going home at six but had
a recent rent increase.
Everything led to the cab
slipping along 3rd Avenue.
Him in front of his office
and then lunging out to
avoid a puddle.
There was no one to blame
nothing to blame really
not the rain
or the dark coat
not the dim lights
nor the cab driver
who would remember this always
and sometimes blame himself.
It was part of a series
of events of time and place
leading to this conclusion.
An ambulance screamed
down the avenue. His eyes
wide open as he lay
facing the black night.
His time finished
eyes opened as if
staring at something
quite different now.
Joy Mahar is an emergent writer living on the outskirts of Detroit. Her work has…
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Liked the drama of the poem, but you mean to say "Everything led to the cab" or, perhaps, "Everything leads to the cab."