The Christmas tree hums, electric and unholy, Buzzing like a jukebox on its last quarter. He stands there, a frozen silhouette— Back turned, shoulders slumped, A man marooned in a season of false promises. The gas pump wheezes a dying note, Fueling neither man nor machine. His Santa hat tilts, A plastic crown for a king of nowhere. Beyond the neon glow, the snow stretches blank— A canvas no one bothered to paint. He doesn’t move, doesn’t look. He already knows the ending.