The posh banker laughs— Sharp as glass in a winter storm, Driving through cracks no one can fix. His suit pristine, his smile cracked, Behind the wheel of promises repossessed, Steering blind through broken years. The dashboard flickers yellow, Gold like the coins he counts in his sleep— A pyre for the hollow victories he wears. Outside, the world melts quietly, Frosted windows, frostbitten roads, And still, he laughs— As if laughter might matter.