The Taxi Man Poem by danae kavouridi

Wet eyes,
but no tear on this youthful part of skin,
the part where tears go, when they drop.
The taxi driver said: baby, you look so young,
a Lolita, a sweet marshmallow,
a skin that hasn’t sinned…
(only if he knew)
the non-regretted sins,
the drugs, the alcohol,
all the astonishing addictions,
the wild non-love making
with men, once she thinks a woman maybe…
Can she really remember?
Her distinguished youth,
A rock n’ roll adolescence,
That led an old serious Jewish therapist to the words
“we cannot work together anymore’’
she was rejected once again
by a man who was deeply in love with her…
Always used to make fun of his shoes:
How can a forty year old Freudian lined psychoanalyst
wear low Doc Martins?
Now she tries to cry,
swallowing her last fashionable rejection…
by such a sweet man,
but still a man.
She’s not in love or in lust,
It’s only a formally authorized hope,
for a second soft, pure stroke –
with the fingers of the back of the palm
to the noticeable (by the taxi man) youthful skin.
In the ride, she said:
I ‘m a mother- I ‘m thirty two years old.
Admiration again!
To him, with the soft touch
She said nothing…
There was no admiration,
Just a sad feeling of sympathy saying
“I think I know your world,
but I do not want to come in.
I ‘m already destroyed by love,
by a woman with a less perfect skin”.
She tries to cry,
For him-for that rejection.
But no! Just wet eyes and permanent frowned eyebrows
‘’people who think a lot always have that’’
grandpappa said at her sixteen birthday….
Tomorrow she smiles again,
and life continues
with self born sarcasm and unconditional generosity.
The taxi driver said
'smile, it makes you pretty'
She did!
It made her pretty…
but all she wants is another stroke-
by him, on the cheek…
Hey! A tear!
Oh no, just a crazy joke!
Her mood is partially back.