To the Lyft Driver Who Ripped Me Off $20

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Your cologne fills the car like beach air

before the release of a rainstorm.

When I say, I’m new here, you point out

the smooth shapes of the buildings,

the sun landing like strips of confetti.                       

Do you celebrate here? Smile

over the shine of stars in puddles?                

Are there birds in your city?

Birds to take the bread from your hands,

to dart around in a dance above your head?  

Do you pray for God to line the moonless roads

with angel wings folded over you?               

When you leave me at the hotel forever,

will you return home, take off your shoes,

and cry, sometimes with the ease of music? 

I can’t tell by staring at the back of your head

if you’re the kind who thinks

the iron of the air, the blood of survival,

is what the world really smells like.              

Maybe, though, you’re really a man

who takes long walks in your city

while the pink sun fades away,

who stops to admire the sidewalk lilies,

noticing they grow taller every year.