Sometimes I think it’s luck, being a cabdriver and having small talk 
with people I’m taking home from the airport to streets with names 
like Ashton or Scullery Row. I’d turn in my medal by the end of the day 
around six and have enough time to bide by with a cup of joe, watching 
everybody rush by outside. Frantic on the sidewalk, frenzied on the metro.

Early evening you’d find me headed towards the corner dimsum, 
hanging my coat in the back and punching in on the dot. 
I’ve been washing dishes for so long, Juanito kids that with me it’s an art form. 
Nozzles trained at piles and piles of greasy porcelain, warm and cold. All of seven hours 
till way past midnight I’m churning them out. Crisp and squeaky clean. Except this once, 
I don’t think much about it. Life runs in cycles, and so does this job. 
Soak, soap, spray. Repetitions of the same. 

It’s pouring by the time the last load’s done. 
Home for me’s a utility by the West end of town. 
Grim warehouses and run-down buildings with the sometime pub, a pool and bowl. 
I had a dog once, and she’d run to greet me every time I got in the door. That was such a long time ago.

Corralling pots and pans to catch the ceiling drips, settling down in my favorite chair. 
Listening to the pitter-patter, the padding of the torrent against the gray pebble window. 
Two floors below the neighbors I don’t know are having a down-low. 
The boombox reverberating a hyped hybrid drum and bass jungle. 

A few old man concerns. Was laundry taken care of this week at all? 
I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s not like I have to dress up to go to work.
There’s nothing else, then. Door’s locked? 
I take off my shoes and try to see what else is going on in the world around me. 
Three minutes. And tomorrow’s another day, as I pass out with the tv on.