A Poem About Booze - Noaa Rienecker

He gets in the backseat of my cab
and tells me where to. 
All night long we ride
stopping at all his favorite haunts,
visiting all his deadbeat buddies.

The fare box ticks steadily upwards,
climbing as the night wears on
in tandem with my confidence 
that my passenger can handle the bill.

Quite a conversationalist, my client,
with a penchant for cigarettes, ice cream,
and cocaine. 

We get along great, 
so well, in fact,
that I forget amidst our 
slurred and jovial goodnight wishes 
to ask him 
to pay up,

and just as he disappears around a corner, 
I realize my wallet
is as flat as my tires.