Lonely taxi journey

I am travelling home for Christmas
With a taxi driver who knows everything
And he reveals way too much.

Within seconds he is recounting tales
Of his excesses in the East
Things that’d make my toes curl
And normally I’d be uncomfortable
But it is Christmas
And I don’t need to know him.
He is the first person I have spoken to
Since getting off the train
And he has a Somerset accent
And I’m home.

Until,
Slowing at the lights
he points out a flaking lamppost.
Some frosted flowers
Peeling
Out of a grubby yellow bucket.
He chuckles.
“See that?”
Leans in.
“Two lads, 19, out on the lash,
Causing trouble after hours,
Pasted by a truck.
Fucking kids, eh?”

The drive continues

And for a moment I could be anywhere
These
Common streets are alien
The nights are getting darker
And I’m alone,
Where a bucket,
some limp garage flowers
And the scorn of a taxi driver
Who used three prostitutes
Whilst in Thailand
Is all that the death
Of two 19 year olds
Deserve.