Ubers to Bow.

no love, but loved those trips home,
those lips, home, for an hour, three;

prim, opulent, middle-classed order,
riding in the dark, the womb of an uber,
gazing out into the night, city lights
gleaming by revellers, drivers, drifters

like a speck of pensive, cinematic dust,

an inexpensive wonder, wide-smiled
in the deep-dark of a dawn-ward day,
city air window-rippling like a fine thigh,

sighing on back east.