The driver grips the wheel like a lifeline, Knuckles white beneath threadbare gloves. His Santa hat, crooked and worn, Sags like the season itself— Heavy with broken promises and roadside regrets. Beside him, the passenger stares blankly, A plastic saint come to life, Smiling through smudged windows and ghostly snow. She watches him with the dull patience of someone Who’s seen the end and knows it’s not worth hurrying. The windshield frames the world in streaks— A red horizon bleeding into gray, Where holiday cheer comes secondhand, And joy rides shotgun with resignation. Their route is endless, The map a myth, the journey a joke. Christmas has no destination here, Only a stalled engine And frostbitten dreams melting in the heat of empty stares. Somewhere, sleigh bells ring, But in this car, it’s the sound of tires on slush, The hum of a heater barely keeping time, And the silence between two travelers Who’ve forgotten why they left in the first place.