He waits like a ghost made flesh, Paint cracked, a smirk erased. The road dissolves behind him— An empty stage, Curtain down, But he’s still there. He stands in the cold fog, A punchline no one laughed at, A face you’d swear you’ve seen before In dreams that taste like gasoline. The colors smear and stain, A sick circus left behind, And yet he waits— Eyes locked, Daring you to roll the window down. The world is watching. And you? You keep driving.