A cracked face and pallid skin, Pushing trolleys through the cold din. The tree’s fake needles glint with frost, A holiday’s cheer in a world long lost. This parking lot, a grey abyss, Where echoes smother what you miss. The porter rolls through empty rows, Silent as ice where nothing grows. The neon hum, a motel’s sigh, Peeling paint where ghosts still lie. His crooked grin—a story untold, A suit threadbare, and fingers cold. To cart this tree from dark to dark, Under skies devoid of spark. A Christmas spent on broken ground, Where no one waits, and none are found.