A windshield frames the scene like glassy regret, Chrome edges catching sparks of neon blurs. Through streaked rain and cigarette haze, The Christmas tree hums in fluorescent silence, Its lights a brittle lie against the dark. Inside, ghosts gather— Children in coats too thin, Men drowning in coffee, no sugar, no cream, Eyes stitched to screens flickering blue and blank. Plastic booths cradle sagging bodies, Too tired to move, too numb to care. And somewhere in this hollow hum, A song bleeds through static— Something about peace, something about joy. But joy’s been forgotten in the diner’s corners, Sucked dry like yesterday’s fries. The car idles, engine coughing softly. A man taps the dash, his knuckles raw. Outside, the tree glows harder, But no one looks up. Silent night. Holy nothing.