Footsteps carefully creeping up behind
Fade into the wall; they cannot be seen.
As the room spins into pleasant fog
A tap on the shoulder is faint.
The hours turn with large brass hands
With a tick tock too soft to hear.
Twinkling stars through the city lights
Shine out; but hard to see.
The odometer zooms higher and the clock
On the dashboard seems fixed at late.
Winds whip, lips slip, and doors swing shut
But hands do not unclasp.
Uncommon collections of kids with souls
Filled with the effervescence of the evening.
They never feel a stronger tie to life
Than now; when asphalt's calling.
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