The sirens

The sirens are rampant on Ocean Parkway. All afternoon they tally half a dozen to the hour. They are trying to teach Brooklyn the Doppler effect. Cars jump curbs; crash into restaurants. Men drop dead, having run the Marathon on Sunday. A car overturns at Avenue I; a minute later, another overturns at Avenue X.

I is for Idiot; X is for crossed. Star-crossed, crossed wits, killed crossing the street.

The fire companies don't bother to pull into the firehouses anymore. They just drive around and around, poised to sound. The ambulances idle. The cops kick up dust.