A distant siren’s faintest cry waifs
In surrogate voice for one about to die.
Is that an ambulance or just the wind?
Wait, there it is again, nearer,
Louder in crescendo piercing wail.
So mundane as to warrant idle notice,
Intrusive and annoying to calloused curiosity.
Flashing lights and lettered windows hide,
Impersonalize the pain that rides inside.
And who cares, a family or friend?
And might that feeling truly be of grief,
Or rather relief, a life soon may end?
Anguish knows its limit with the dead
But honors no such boundary otherwise
For release of those who might survive,
Where tragedy lurks like a latent virus
And waits to rage when least attended.
And so the siren’s plaintive cry pales
To dull and distant whimper, out of mind,
Allowing traffic to continue.