Taxi driver's Monologue Poem by Michael Krüger

The passenger wanted to take the shortcut,
not me. At first a hedgehog crossed the road,
later a herd of cattle, then a deer
that didn't want to budge. A black cat
made us take a detour till the border
and beyond, eastwards. Then the man had
to relieve himself and got lost in the woods.
He lay under the blackberries, tattered and shaking,
where he believed his glasses to be. We got to know
each other. We found a couple mushrooms
that we ate raw because we were hungry. Apparently
I seemed strange to him although he didn't even really
understand me. During the trip we both vomited out
of the windows. You look a bit pale,
he said to me, face white as a sheet.
Then another border. Not really German,
so back again. At the airport, he had stepped
in my taxi around 5 p.m. Without luggage,
wearing a light coat, a thin book underneath his arm.
To cut a long story short: by morning we reached
a city, somehow pleased and very much used to
each other by now. My god, what a life did
he lead. Only he just didn't want to pay.

Translated by Bradley Schmidt