by The Couch Lady

Late night drive alone,
wind whispering into my ride;
Pickett's voice inspires a delayed
    reaction,
a realization
right when I needed one.
I could spend a hundred nights like
    this one
on the open road.
I entertain fantasies of driving
'til I just can't drive no more,
landing upon an undiscovered
    Texas town,
covered in dust and memories,
where people are a "funny"
    kind of friendly
and can turn me on to
something new.
It's a rush to ride and wonder
    in thought,
to look at a consuming sky
where stars gaze, pondering
    how far away I seem.
I can see on the horizon
the orange twinklin'' lights of home
a longing hesitation for something
    different
in the body of a sigh...
Another time for flight, for
drivin' 'til I can't go no more'

right now gotta handle the everyday;
maybe soon a whim will set me free.
The mirth is fading
as I pass tired truckers
    dreamin' of sleep
and family...
I guess I should be satisfied
in driving with the rush,
if only at the moment
a shotgun-sittin' lady of freedom,
that comes along
when riding under the night.