Sirens After Midnight
Engines snarl the quiet open. Our street forgets its name and becomes a dare. Headlights stitch the midnight dark too fast to hold, mailboxes flinch, trees lean back.
Tires scream first, then the sirens, blue red prayers bouncing off porches, windows waking like startled eyes. Someone laughs. Someone swears. Time skids sideways.
The cars vanish, but the echo keeps racing, heart still pinned to the redline, long after the law and the boys are gone.
Afterward, the street exhales. Oil hangs in the air like a secret. Dogs bark at nothing. A loose can rolls, applause with no hands. Tomorrow, chalk lines, rumors, scorch marks, proof that for seconds, speed owned us, and we let it.
© daniel miltz
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