Dame gets in the cab. It’s midnight.
Gives me no address. Says: Just drive.
Can’t see her face but that’s okay.
To be polite, I say: Nice night.
No reply. She don’t seem alive.
Then I smell lilies and damp clay.
You know that feeling, when you wake
at night, like someone’s in the room.
You sense a loathsomeness descend.
I get that now. I try to brake
but the cab won’t stop. It’s a tomb,
ice cold. My hair stands up on end.
I hug the wheel, do as I’m told,
glance in the mirror, tempting fate.
Her face is skeletal and drawn,
her garments wear a layer of mold.
Turn here, she says. The graveyard gate
stands open. I look back, she’s gone.