First Taxi

I stepped off the Greyhound into a light rain, streetlights
slurred, just shy of the border, a line of taxis at the curb,

waiting, right where my mother said they would be.
I had never gone anywhere alone in my life. And I guess

I thought I was supposed to bargain. “How much to ride
through the slow rain of my whole life?” Twelve dollars.

“How much to step inside a painting that has waited
since the day of my birth?” Twelve dollars.

Twenty-one, just out of college, the high school genius
with no job or prospects—afraid to talk to people—

If I looked half as lost as I felt, I was sure I’d be fleeced.
“How much to tell her that I have forgiven her?”

Twelve dollars. “That I have not, but I will.” Still twelve.
That was America, everything a fixed price. He didn’t say

“Empty your pockets, empty the pail of blueberries
you picked with her when you were five, empty the beaches

where she swam, sand by sand.” I like to imagine
I asked last, “How much to go to the International Motel?”

and he said ten. But, really, I just quibbled,
then checked with each cab in the queue. All said twelve.

and I got in. This was America. And that was me.
Bargaining for a taxi to go see my dying mother.