the taxi driver

The Taxi Driver.

When my half-brother, the sage, was a child
he was different from us, didn’t care to play
silly games but sat cross-legged on the floor
saying things that impressed the grown ups,
so mother let him sit there, he didn’t have to
do a thing, like going into the dark cellar to
get a box of coal, rats down there it wasn’t
fair that I should have to do it, just because
he was a sage. My half brother grew up a fat
child when that was, not like now, unusual,
tall too he took up of space on pavements in
our little town; in the end he too had to find
work, a taxi driver now, he has many words
of wisdom to tell his captive fares