SOMALIA (a prose poem)

Ricky Scott wanted to borrow
forty dollars from me.
What for? I asked. He
said take a taxi out to
my daughter's in Edina for
Christmas Day. She's still sore
at me for missing her law school
graduation. That was five years ago
I said. Yeah, he said, I figure no
one can turn their own father away
on Christmas day.
I'll drive you out myself
I told him. I doubt
there'll be any cabs about
on that day -- even the Somalis take
it off. Notice how many they
drive now?

You wouldn't catch me behind the wheel
of a cab having to deal
with all the nutbrains out there.
Now about that forty said Ricky.
I'll drive you, remember? I'm not picky
what I do Christmas day. My kids
are scattered and gone down the street
like leaves. What time should I meet
you?
But now he was stuck on Somalis. How
they honored the marriage vow
and they had no nursing homes to
put you away in. Listen you,
I nearly yelled, everyone's dead
over there from civil war I read
in the paper. The survivors are all
over here, driving our cabs and
cleaning every school in the land.
The husbands get five wives each.
Hey, said Ricky, that's pretty neat.
Five wives working and I'm not a deadbeat
anymore.

Then he started again: if you can't swing
forty how about thirty? Anything
would help. If the buses run I'll get
her a present, see, and I bet
we'll be pals again like when she was little.
She always liked peanut brittle.
I paid for her gold fillings, dammit.
I offered you a ride not money
I told him. Y'know it's funny
you never see Mexicans drive
cabs. Ricky said they're all illegal
but Somalis respect the law, they're regal
the way they carry themselves -- ever notice?
They're all descended from kings so their pride
is intense. I grabbed his arm. A ride,
do you want it or not? I ask one
last time. Let's have lunch,
my treat he says. We hunch
against the dirty cold wind
outside his efficiency in St. Louis Park.
Your treat my ass I bark
at him. You'll stick me with the bill
as sure as the grass is green.
He says there's a Somali place I've seen
over on Lake Street. Saffron rice
and goat meat. Let's go there.
At this point I don't care
about Somalia but I say hop in
and we go over to the place
on Lake Street. It's got lace
curtains but no table clothes.
The rice is outstanding. We eat our fill.
It's cheap enough. I pay the bill.
I drop him off at Walgreen's.
With my forty bucks.
He waves and then ducks
inside to buy Rogaine.
He's such a mooch, that Ricky Scott.
And he still thinks he has a shot
at the girls.