Sirens from the castle
by Lynda Williams

At Bay and Blanchard
by the castle on the corner where
they keep a little piece of the army
locked up, all the lights went red
at the same time while the castle
launched sirens and a red cross truck.

Cars sat blinking a silent bongo
tack-tuck of turn signals, drivers
fondling their horns, imaging the
lights were stuck red somehow
perhaps by accident for too long
after the truck had screamed past.

At the edge of that unnaturally
empty intersection, cars pondered
until the Volkswagen in the left turn
lane -- did.

And the cars began to trickle
cautious as nuns exploring hell
or squirting into the breach of
civic patience like children tearing
off a bandaid too fast to hurt
while the lights stayed red, red, red.