Bill (a poem)
Nobody quite knows where Bill went.
Yesterday evening, after he left the pub
wafted out by our waving, he looked fine,
glossy even. But then, that was it.
Sharon says he never turned up, though
we called him a cab. First we said,
“you’re a cab” and roared, but then we really
called him one on Steve’s cellphone.
The other week I saw a show where a cabbie
murders his passenger. It was a drama,
but still, shit, you hope it’s not…
you hope Bill will make it back.