the sirens
A poem.
I hear the sirens again.
they wail outside the open window,
past the rain-doused streets
& darkened Brooklyn houses.
the sirens shriek & shout into the ears
of everyone told to trap themselves at home.
each siren tells a story
that I will never know:
maybe one of a living, breathing
person desperate for the oxygen
of connection, desperate for help,
desperate to know what it means
to reach out & touch someone
in an age of isolation.
the sirens shout their way
up & down wet & empty streets,
telling everyone & no one
to get out of the way.
twelve hours earlier,
fearful & masked
I went to the bakery across the street.
when I entered, a woman
with a scarf over her face
wielded a loaf of bread
like a mace in her rubber-
bound hands & demanded
to know why one of the bakers
had taken off their gloves.
take this one! & this one!
they're all contaminated,
you're all contaminated!
every one of you!
she hurled fresh-baked loaves
like spears & then stormed out.
the rest of us watched silently
until we noticed how close
we had unconsciously gathered,
& so we broke apart like sand
in the wind. when I got home
I slowly scrubbed my hands
in scalding water & wondered
if she was right.