We could take that old stick shift Toyota,
with it's scraped up doors
and mish mash engine under that tin can of a hood,
and grab some loose change for the toll booths.
Aviators in the glove box
and a spare lighter in my purse,
we could hit the road.
Toss clothes in a duffel bag
with a couple sleeping bags
that our parents won't miss,
and head south.
Roll back the moon roof,
hair whipping with speed,
freedom. Eighteen and nowhere to go.
We've got nowhere to go.
Nowhere we need to be.
Not yet.
Not for this little window,
a spot of youth so fleeting.
They can't catch us now,
so let's run while we have the chance.
Hey handsome, going my way?
Where to?
Wherever you're going, sugar.
