From ten years ago

Samuel Beckett's New York City Cabdriver

he looked like someone from a black and white horror movie
but i needed the fare and stopped at that east village corner
he wore a black overcoat and had wild white hair
he did not say much
just the address he wanted to go
i tried to talk to him
about the yankees
the hot dog and yoo-hoo i had for lunch
that it was january and it's only snowed once
he may have grunted, or swore at me under his breath to shut up
but in my mirror i noticed all he did
was stare out the window
don't get me wrong
i can talk your ear off about the assholes
who sat back there
this guy was far from the worst
you say he was a writer?
did he write for the papers?
did he make a lot of money?
because he wasn't a horrible tipper