Late for Work

Sirens blaze through the air
directly into my ears. Everything
stops moving, like when something
blocks a dog’s trail—giving up.
Giving up on uncertain wishes
to finally make it to work
on time. What time is it anyways?
Three seconds later—sirens cut
through everything. They are
everything. They are a sign of
life, a baby being born; of help,
saving kids in car accidents; of
death on the run. But really,
what time is it? I’ve been still,
cringing at the consistency of the
awful sound. I’m so going to be late
for work. “10:34,” someone crunches
the words through my eardrums. But
really, my eardrums are no longer
there. And neither am I, because
even I didn’t hear it over the
sirens, “Time of Death: 10:34.”
I won’t be going to work today.