Take a taxi they said.
They go everywhere fast.
They’re reliable.
Everyone uses them.
Everyone.
Including their extended family, a gaggle of geese, a stable of horses and their mother in law.
There’s always room for one more.
Somehow.
It defies known physics.
I was the one more.
The last sardine.
A chicken pooped on my head.
A goat ate my shoelaces.
We set off at a terrific speed enveloped in a plume of black exhaust.
We swerved and careened through the crowds, hooting like a parliament of owls.
The ancient tires squealed and yowled like a convocation of screaming eagles.
Welcome to New York, they said.
I closed my eyes and thought of England.
The Blurred Line 