Sirens

Market and Straight streets: Paterson

The old men shift sides on this long street
To the movement of the sun,
Sweaty faces glittering with the sharp light
Even in the shadows
Full of tall talk as the police sirens pass
Roaring to some unseen emergency
Too far down Market Street for them to see,
The siren song so frequent
It’s like white noise to them,
Even when they hear it they know
It almost always means death,
They shifting as the sun shift
In an endless almost pointless dance
They perform every day here
Tall talk of good and bad times
Remembered yet can’t get back,
Sipping cold brew to keep the heat off
As the sirens pass