The windshield is covered in ink stains of snow; rolling tentacles of cloud and condensation invisible overhead. The son finds a new york state of mind. The dad swears; the radio swears. The dad swears at the radio. Son swears to himself. The lines obscure in violent precipitation. Snow drifts splay on the road like broken arms, curving and curling from the thick banks on the shoulder. The world is yours son, as he turns the volume down low, use it for more than this shit. And then you die. Their back two wheels are snared left, right, and left like a squid on a hook. I can’t see straight, let alone listen. The scattered headlights brighten a bowed pine then center back on crowded lines. The trumpet sings of family trees, getting paid, and slinging keys. The snow still falls and the dad chooses static. One day you’ll appreciate real music. There is little in the way of respite. Life’s a bitch, and then you die.