Jesus Lane

Past the waffle joint on Jesus Lane, grease still sizzling in the air like a cheap tart—
two black cabs tangled up like drunks after last call, front ends kissing metal on metal.
Some skinny bastard on a bicycle did it, clipped one and kept pedalling into the dark,
ass disappearing down a side street before the horns even started.

The drivers climb out, both built like beer barrels, red-faced, shouting about bumpers
that now look like crumpled love letters. Money, always money—
hundreds down the drain for a little paint and pride.

Passengers lean out the windows, flapping arms, phones glowing in their fists,
cursing the clock, cursing the night, cursing everything that breathes.
The cabbies swap insurance numbers longer than a loser’s rap sheet,
faces twisted like they just swallowed a lump of shit.

And somewhere, a couple blocks away,
that cyclist cracks a cold one, feet up,
foam on his lip and not a fucking shred of guilt in his bones.

Just another night in the city, another ghost
riding free while the rest of us pay.