On the Mewburn rank,
the taxi driver curses the silent two-way radio
as he peels his sweat-soaked back
off the vinyl seat.
Like an osprey scanning the shifting sea
for silver flashes,
he appraises each approaching shopper.
Only the growing sound
of loud and tuneless singing
breaks his newsprint-induced trance.
A laugh bursts from his lips
as he watches The Shaven-headed Singer
on his child-size bicycle
freewheeling past the agape pedestrians.
They look askance at one another
in case this passing madness
might call out their own demons.
Then, rolling back their eyes like grateful Plague survivors,
they go back to their lemming rushfor lifestyle with a capital L.
Only the taxi driver,
knowing the arbitrary yardstick of sanity,
loves The Shaven-headed Singer
for celebrating the wildness in us all.
