From the days when I drove taxis in the Sydney nights. When mikes were live and we talked to the operator. When we didn’t wear grubby uniforms and cash was king.

Skirting another peer group,
Avoiding another clique,
The party round continues as he left it years ago.

Manic panic weekend living,
Crowded driving solitude,
Cruising the neon nightscape.

Ferrying the stranded and the loaded,
Taking their money with a smile,
A quick-change conversation to the meter’s ticking tune.

Two-way voices static his dreams,
Wrapped in the smoky cockpit,
Trapped behind the wheel.

Visions of urban mansions,
Myths on the edge of town,
Peopled by frightened ciphers jogging home in gloom.

Faced with traps of security,
Lighting another smoke,
He cracks a crooked smile and cruises vacant into the night.

Another gypsy driver chasing the moon.