The siren startles
with its high-pitched fever,
late summer night,
sending folks scrambling
down side streets
or indoors.
Cops are either
heading for
where there’s been a shooting
or looking for somebody
on their most wanted list,
so they can start
a shooting of their own.
Mothers hustle their kids
away from the windows.
A stray bullet kills just as well
as one that hits its intended target.
They pray to Lord Jesus,
even more so
if there’s one of their brood
unaccounted for in the moment.
No cop is coming here
to chat neighborly,
to ask how you’re doing
on this steamy August evening.
Sure, the cops are human.
But their red lights are spinning,
The shriek is deafening.
So, smiles go unseen.
Kindness is unheard.
John Grey is an Australian poet, and U.S. resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. His latest books include, “Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” which are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.