As if hypnotized by the illicit pleasure
of her barely touching hand on his cheek
and her eyes pressed to his mouth and her lips
fixed in paradise, the taxi driver, peering in his
rear-view and long arrived at the hotel with its revolving
doors they’ll not use, for a doorman will open with
great somberness so they can disappear, anxious
to ascend and commence their marathon to purity,
gazes back to his farebox, its bright numbers
now thundering louder than ever before.