Exquisite Fire Truck

Searing bright red siren sounds

break the black night

as chystanthemum white lights flash

and I in my grey armoured pod drive by.

Music, violins dance over my skin

as I wonder who needs rescuing

in such an expensive orange complex.

Some executive branched CEO

heart attacking after a tryst?

A single cat batty recluse OD'd on painkillers?

Or a veteran of the Iraq quagmire

whose new job, delivering pizzas,

takes him to underground parking lots

and PTSD attacks when a car backfires?

My avenue is calm, though,

street lights clearing up the question

of who goes where.

No on needs rescuing here

the blue embered living rooms,

one after the other,

whisper calm, pseudo tranquility.

But that siren follows

like a heavy noxious gas,

its long arms reaching to embrace

the next victim of happenstance.