taxi ride

: tenga to balipara

man! are we packed

we are packed like

like sardines? it’s not a metaphor i can relate to

mine comes in tins, swimming in brine

like cigarettes? no, not so straight

like a pack of pringle maybe? but not all the same

more like misshapen corn on the cob

ya, corn. in orderly rows 
three ladies adjusted next to the driver. four 
people in the middle and four in the back

plus two kids in two laps

an old man on my left

wrinkled hands three rings one with a gem

i can feel his ribs against my elbow through our two jackets

­the tug of his intercostals when he coughs

a kid’s father on my right the dad’s elbow in my side

the kid leans on my arm sleeps eventually with his head on my hand

his ear touching my thumb his scapula against my forearm

jammed against one another leg against leg all the way to the calves

thigh against thigh crushing phones and cigarette packs

knees bent into the back of the seats in front

we’re packed so tight our pelvic girdles touch

i can feel thin muscles tense if they so much

as contemplate a movement

we are cushioned like a fragile shipment packet

and i start thinking of jackets

i’m wearing one of my dad’s

i think i’ll keep it. it’s served me quite a bit, as clothing goes

against cold and dust and sharp elbows

and then it doubles as my pillow 
through nights when we don’t have beds or a place to stay

and the way it’s looking now, he wouldn’t want it back anyway

i should get it dry-cleaned at the end of the trip though

i’ve always been curious about  dry-cleaning

but never bothered to find out how it works, meaning

is it like a dry-wash in some volatile solvent soaking inside-out?

dry-cleaning sounds more like just a dry wipe i think

a surface scrub with alcohol or something

ah! breakfast stop

time for the corn to pop