The Fare

The cabby on the nightshift

knew,

he drove us through the ocean down

the Slope, where

Yellowtail and Hammerheads and

Japanese Jack mackerel 

have latched onto the 

windows,

seaweed crawling down

the seats,

to lead us deeper into 

Brooklyn’s great marina,

our webline veins affixed

with caffeine swell,

the new staccato rain

a school of children 

tapping on the glass

for us to see.