The cowboy grips the wheel like it owes him money, Leather hat pulled low, shadow carving lines in his face. Beside him, the passenger stares ahead— A ghost with glasses, counting invisible miles. The city lights smear through the glass, Too bright, too sharp, Like knives dragged across a photograph. Neon bleeds onto tired hands, As if they’ve seen this road before. The engine hums its funeral dirge, And somewhere in the backseat of the world, The clock whispers they’ve already lost. But they drive anyway— Chasing smoke, or maybe the sunrise.