mistake on the capital expressway

With hands still soft though stained with tar
One nail grown long for when I go home
I turn the wheel as if displeased
And double up the customers' unease- their dread
I hear them talk in a foreign tongue
As if I could mistake their tone
Some rich boy tries to cut off me
I deal with him with a burst of speed then dead
And what a disappointing thing
My final sound these foreigners' screams
They hit the seats
The scene completes
I finally sleep along the street- bled