You are on your way
home. Just ahead—
your exit ramp.
Traffic has stopped,
but begins
to move slowly
forward. A vehicle
appears
on your left.
It is facing
the wrong direction.
The top half
of the car is absent—
it looks
like a convertible,
though it is not.
The movement
of your own vehicle
feels like a black
and white film
of the Kennedy
assassination.
At the front
bumper
of the wrecked
vehicle,
a door opens.
Something putrid
flows through
you. Fifty yards ahead
sits one shoe—
a sneaker. You now
believe in evil.