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Poem

The execution 

 The basement, where cars are parked
in neat little boxes in a row, is cold and creepy.
It looks like a place where the fascists can
execute dissenters those who go on about
liberty for the masses.
There are bloodstains on the wall and cars
are silent witnesses to the massacre.
From the roof of the garage, blood drips of
the tortured on the first floor.
A black and white western on another wall
drown the screams of those who finally realize
there is no escape.
I sit in my car; it is ten years old and is not
forgotten in this horrid time. I sleep a little.
Wake up, start, the vehicle and take it out for a spin.

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