Outside the comfort of my little four-walled sanctum,
Cars beep and sirens ring.
I wonder who those horns belong to.
Whose mechanical cry I am hearing,
Here in the security of my own bed.
The angry beep could be the frustration of a single mother,
Fighting to get to the job she’s barely holding on to.
Or maybe the horn belongs to a scared man,
Afraid of everyone around him,
Beeping so they know he’s there.
Could the sirens be those of an ambulance?
Encased in their metal walls a teenage victim,
Poisoned by his own self loathing.
Or maybe the screeches belong to a fire truck,
Filled with men eager to protect and serve us.
I can sit here all night,
making up stories about fictional characters,
In real life situations.
But in reality,
I’ll never know,
The cause of the beeps and horns.
I’ll just know,
Tomorrow a variation of the same tune will play tomorrow,
And I’ll be here,
Waiting,
Listening for the Song of the Streets.