If I'm driving east,

my thumb points north down the steering wheel.

There's only to weave streets and hope
for chance happenstance.
I used to have others to run with or romance.

Her window was always within a stone's flight,
If she wasn't there, he'd be game for a late night,
to bait life,
hook and cook fate on the flame.

Always the same, you just don't remember those lows;
I've driven this way twice -- no, more -- before, though.

Silent roads, the houses just listen.
Street lights shine off closed blinds inside mute windows.
I can't open mine or the music falls out when the wind blows.