Too Much Of Everything Taxi

                                                                 For I have had too much
                                                                 Of apple-picking: I am overtired
                                                                 Of the great harvest I myself desired.
                                                                                                      
                                                                                          Robert Frost

I awakened early this morning disconsolate, feeling unhappy and exhausted.  Yesterday's special session of the taxi commission floated upon my consciousness, troubling me.  The actual meeting went well.  The commission has two new members and clearly we are progressing forward from last year's rough debut. No instead the problem is similar to the one voiced  in "After Apple Picking."   Having labored to be in a position of influence, the "great harvest" of authority is overwhelming, having personally touched each problem and issue, like Frost's thousands upon thousands of apples touching his fingers.  Especially it was the pubic commentary I found overburdening, knowing well their positions and concerns.  Full well do I know and understand that the "for-hire" folks have been screwed by poor bureaucratic decision making while simultaneously knowing I must balance their concerns with my industry.  All too intimate is the uniform issue, the black and white accouterments and apparel of the properly attired cabbie, potentially scary to some upon a taxi Halloween. Maybe my innate sympathies ultimately make me inadequate to the task confronting me.  Yes I have to make decisions and must do something, anything but what is fair, what holds lasting legitimacy?  Taxi is the epitome of temporal, permanency dissolving around the next rainy corner. But there are important issues looming like towering peaks.  How to get up and over is the question.  The usual taxi response is to press upon the accelerator, flying by the problem.  Lying in bed this morning there unfortunately was no gas pedal available. I was there with reality filtering through the shades, twenty-five years of this taxi business my coverlet and blanket.  Eventually I turned over and slept until awakened by the telephone. "She-who-can't-be-named" was pressing apples for cider.  It was delicious but had to be diluted.  How can I then "water" down my concerns and anxiety?  Short of completely walking away I believe I will just have to suffer through, something my Catholic heritage has taught me to do. When do I reach that final confession, that last determinative absolution?  I don't have a final answer and that for the moment is my current response poor as it is, bruised and destined for the cider-bin and press.