i had to give the taxi driver 2 stars.
he was pleasant enough when I got in
and the tired backseat upholstery rang out
the same smell of my parents’ old zafira.
but the rating was dropping the moment
he switched on radio 4’s science hour
as we crept past your mum’s house.
then he didn’t take that left-hand turn
near the church where you lost your faith
and towards the alleyway, stretching on into
the estate’s heart, where you found it again.
instead we moved through the pools of gold
that used to splash up onto our soft faces—
diffused, now, by his subtle window tints.
he couldn’t even set his heaters to breathe
out the same cool air that would roll over
our warm, aching skin as we held back the
summer evenings. and when i lent in and said
“here is fine”, the half-lit shapes in the mirror
kept sinking further into the misty night .
Uncultured Review 