This is a small, very flawed, poem I wrote in the waiting room of a health centre. It is about the taxi driver who got me there in his beaten up Skoda. He disclosed to me that he had found a dieting secret which he hoped would eventually earn him immortality. He went on to tell me about it, and the communities of people trying it, in great length. Crawling through the streets, fast food boxes shifting with every turn across the dashboard and the radio mumbling the news on low. Here is what happened:
The Taxi Driver
As he drives me to my appointment,
With the aim of avoiding potential disappointment,
The radio discussing inner-city violence
He starts to endlessly babble.
And in his thought stream I’m unwillingly forced to dabble.
He tells me of his new diet:
“You really should try it!”
He doesn’t know that this suggestion has hardly made my day,
Because I am actually on my way to get weighed
He continues: “All the celebrities are on it!”
“It’s making them fighting fit!”
“The wife thinks I’m a steak avoiding heathen”
“You slice and dice, nothing cooks”
“It’s in all the top health books”
“One man did it and lived to two hundred and seventy.”
“Oh yes- still full of life, joy and fidelity!”
I begin to feel intellectually frugal
As I make a search on google.
‘Oldest man in the world at one hundred and sixteen.’
I would tell him, but why ruin his dream?
“My raw cabbage is ready for lunch!”
He’ll drop by Mcdonalds… this is my hunch.
As he pulls up to the clinic,
I feel somewhat of a cynic.
“Have a nice afternoon” I say.
“What I’d do to live forever” he laughs and drives away.
So I guess my sixpence this saturday is that inspiration comes from everywhere and anywhere. Even from just a one-way chat with a taxi driver.