Tuxedos stitched with midnight’s thread, Two faces caught in the rearview’s lie, Eyes locked like broken clocks, Time spinning circles in a stalled machine. The driver hums a hymn of silence, Knuckles pale against the wheel, While shadows ripple across glass— Ghosts waltzing under fluorescent moons. Outside, the neon smears, Billboards shout names no one hears, And inside, they sit, Waiting for a destination they forgot to choose.