The city looks so dirty...

The city looks so dirty in the daylight, and the ocean like a dream tonight
The last lights of the city fade in the side view mirror,
the dizzy feeling of skyscrapers getting smaller disappears
and is replaced by the tiny feeling of vast open spaces;
distances your eye can't measure, and at night, can't even see,
can't even begin to dream.
The engine hums as gasoline pumps through its veins like elixir,
a couple thousand little explosions every minute,
kind of like war with less casualties:
Kind of like the Fourth of July with fewer lawn chairs,
and more purpose:
Kind of like tonight, we drive, and we have no destination.
The Pacific Ocean may turn us, or maybe the gulf or the ol' miss.
Maybe the icy north Atlantic will whisper good morning,
the sunrise on the east coast only rivaled by its setting on the west.
You'll wear flip flops, and I'll wear tennis shoes,
gym shorts and the first shirt from the drawer
(the road offers no fashion awards).
Our friends will sit in the back, leaning forward to converse.
Moonlight will spill across the hood and make shadows on your face,
your curling hair holding the night at bay.
We just go.
We just escape the routines, faintly scribed on our eyelids,
and write new chapters to an ever-expanding memoir.
We just go.
We just hit the road running, leaving behind the weight of sadness,
the parachute-like pull of stress, and frantic speech of unrest.
If we reach the ocean, we'll undress and break waves in our underwear,
wishing we never had to go anywhere or be anything.
The city looks so dirty in the daylight, and the ocean like a dream tonight.