W. Doug Bolden
"Sirens"
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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