He sits in silence, carved from stone and cigarette smoke, A man swallowed whole by the weight of his coat. The windshield—painted in streaks of ice and grime— Blurs the road into an impressionist’s nightmare, A gallery of half-seen exits and wasted chances. His eyes are calm, dead calm— A calm you find only in men who’ve driven too far And stopped caring where the road ends. Behind him, shadows stretch across empty seats, Ghosts of conversations that never mattered. The engine hums like a dirge for the forgotten, Every mile a confession it wasn’t ready to make. Outside, the city slips past— Grey buildings, grey skies, grey hearts— A monument to lives that stalled in third gear. And the man just drives. No destination, no plan. Just the wheel, the road, and the echo of a song That keeps time with the dying beat of the wipers.