Cars, like whispering spirits, drive,
Like the rustling of the leaves,
Like the lapping of the tides.
Their hushed voices put mind at ease,
As they blow in through open window
With the cool night breeze.
Whence come these chariots of eventide
And whither go? I lay awake in bed,
I do not know, but listen
To the story of the night.
I hear tale of long hours worked,
Fancy dinners shared,
Passionate trysts stolen.
Unending are the roads in lamplight leading
The weary, the wanting, the waking
Until sleep finds me by the road
And I go without fight.