Night Driver

I find that there is nothing better than late night driving.
Passing silently through darkened streets,
The streetlamps glowing like sickly stars among the
Bare-bone branches of the boulevard oaks.
Passing through the silky darkness, stopped
At empty intersections, alone
Like a trespasser in a long forgotten ghost town.
The inky darkness stained by light pollution
From city lights sprawled in blankets across the landscape,
The intended black-navy turned a purple-orange like it was
Washed with bleach by accident.
Whistling through these streets, passing houses full
Of frozen dreamers waiting for morning.