My Thai taxi driver was Mr. Go.
On a desolate run
            no foreigner had ever traveled
            he eyed me in his mirror.
What was I?
He gave a half-grin;
            I smiled back.
The taxi swerved as he reached
            over the seat to touch my hand.
Who are you, he asked.
My Thai name translated as
            The Wise One.
He laughed.
I am Mr. Go, he said.
I am not too smart,
            but I go very fast.
At the next village market
            he pulled in for a drink
            and dragged me to a seat
Where he wrapped an arm over my shoulder
            took a drag from his cigarette
            and asked:
Does the Wise One go slow or fast?
The Wise One, I said, just follows Mr. Go
            no matter what.
By then, there was a small crowd
            beneath a slow sun
            and the still shade of a tree.
That’s when I was one with Mr. Go.

 

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