Driving by you know you have to go back. Go back on a Saturday when the people who work there are gone.
Slip into the parking lot as casually as you can. You can always say you were lost, like a child.
Headlights busted by rowdy youth. Rowdy youth whose great-greats rode in the back.
Tires bald then brittle. Then brittle creeps up the doors and windows, the hood and roof.
Rides of dignity with the left behind dressed in jet black. Jet black like the paint long since faded.
But who buries the cars that buried the people? The people that built the cars are dead.