Where I live (or at least lived when I wrote this, I have know idea where I will be living when you read this), I was close enough to a city street so that I constantly heard sirens. On rainy days. On foggy days. On just regular nights. Constantly. The basic theme is the fact that I hate every single time I hear them, because I know something is wrong. They have to mean something is wrong. I especially hate them when my wife is not around. Its a weird feeling, but I keep thinking that it might be the last I have heard of her. I worry far too much.

I hate the sound of sirens. I hate their taste, Their implication. I hate their red and their blues, Their midnight. I hate their doppler effect. Their flow of rhythm and bass. Their increased tympany Towards crescendo. I hate their nearness. I hate their far, Their goodbye And their deliverance. I hate their uncertainity. I hate knowing what they mean. I hate their hundreds, The great host, a multitude, And all of heaven before me. I hate their long sighs. I hate their rain, As it patters quietly On the footsteps left Where you left. I hate their "shush", Their finality. Their hate. Their promise. I hate their moving in, the next door Visits. I hate their borrowing Some small condiment. I hate them waving. I hate them, so alien. I hate them. Always. I hate their me.

This poem written by W. Doug Bolden.

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