Where are the cars going tonight, shot through a chute with no visible ending? And who is behind their wheels, and who is on their minds? Where are the cars going tonight? Did they remember to say goodbye, or did something just tell them to drive?
I’m sorry, but the stars don’t seem to be showing tonight, engulfed by the glow at the horizon’s bending. Or maybe a man did steal them straight out of the sky and laid them in the lap of his baby on the passenger side.
Roll down the windows, open the roof. Dial the seat back, behold the moon. The traffic thins out, the air grows cool. The city lies behind us: I can’t see if you’re still with me.
I thought I glimpsed something dancing in my brights. You said you saw it, too, but you might have been pretending. And who knows what it was, but now it’s gone from sight. Where are the cars going tonight? Did they remember to say goodbye, or did something just tell them to drive?