Snow crawls across the glass, Thin cracks in a windshield universe. Red hats sag like flags at half-mast, Dragged by a silence only old men know. Fingers trace stale air, One gripping a cigarette, The other tugging at yesterday’s beard. Nothing burns but the minutes. Their laughter once shook cities, Now it muffles in snowdrifts, Buried under coats of frost and cheap regret. The car idles, engine wheezing, Two shadows pinned in an unmoving world. A sigh, a cough— Then nothing at all.