Steve Kronen   Miami               (Elisa Albo)
Schrödinger's Cab

   They did not dare take a taxi to the station for fear their departure might be reported to the authorities.    
    – Schrödinger: Life and Thought -- Walter J. Moore 
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You won’t be sure of its arrival
until it rolls up to your curb.
Wave, the cabbie’ll say, farewell.
              
All you own’s inside your satchel.
The cabbie says you’ll beat the curfew --
you won’t be sure if he’s a rival,

or if these roads lead to the terminal
where, huddled in their roundhouse, cars
point to or from the far walls 

of your city. You’ll pat your pockets for the schedule.      
The cab backfires and hugs its curve
and you won’t be sure if it’s a rifle
 
or why the heart, beating out the spatial,
is agitated at its core,
something at the center feral: 
​
these posted signs, the engine’s purr, your travel- 
ing light along this course. 
You won’t be sure just how your eye falls 
where you’re bound, or why that feels, in passing, like free will. 

Originally published in The New Statesman



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