Discontent (The Neighborhood is Quiet)

Entertaining dignitaries, I play badminton in the courtyard. The neighborhood is quiet.

     He drives on the edge of the village, knuckles white gripping the wheel. There will be twenty men waiting.

I drink tea, relaxing on the balcony that overlooks the pool. A soft breeze plays with my hair.

     He walks to the gate and shoots the padlock. Load them now.

Jokes are made about deciding on the purchase of a flat-screen television. I smile, but laughter does not come.

     They are lined up, then executed. The last man flinches at the silence before the end of his life.

The driver takes me home. I look out the window and listen as the radio tells me everything but what matters.

     After sunset, he washes stubborn bloodstains out of his shirt. The neighborhood is quiet.