It’s the kind of place you only ever see
Through rainy glass. The blinking sign
Spells KABS, but in the nine-to-five day
Your quick eyes would just slip past.
Now (3am) the yellow doorway frames
A watchful lounger, like a private dick;
Inside the sad lino’s grey and cracked,
It’s all old calendars, veneer and fags.
For this is rarely now the start of rides,
But the long night’s end, the spent return
From loud, expensive, neon-lit adventures;
The heedless passengers blind and deaf
To the cab office's private fomentations.