The cab driver shakes his head
when I look in his direction.
He’s not free.
I ask a passerby.
Which direction is uptown?
A few foreign words spill from her lips.
She probably thinks
I’m asking for change.
It’s starting to rain a little.
I curse myself for leaving my umbrella
in the hotel room.
The traffic is loud and loathsome,
none of it going my way.
The taste of the morning’s coffee,
straight from the La Brea tar pits,
is still on my tongue.
I despise not knowing where I am.