Short Ambulances Poems

Twelve accusers hoping
Eleven charges pending
Ten summoners summoning
Nine lawyers proselytizing
Eight defendants screaming
Seven protesters protesting
Six reporters reporting
Five ambulances on call.
Four morticians digging
Three activists sitting
Two clergymen preaching
One hangman salivating
And zero politicians waking
from their dreams....

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The Sun rises
as it also sets
days become weeks
time passes
agony grows deep

insulting the oppressed
never forgivable
ambulances blown to bits
exploding people dance in the sky
how much hate
went into those bombs
or was it just indifference?
one can stand with a voice
or sit in silence and preach

I have no hate
nor patience for the those
who screech
...

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here in this city
at dawn the dogs rule
they run wild through the empty avenues
chase app taxis
public service ambulances
loaded with victims
of panic syndrome
yesterday the rain caused flooding
and at night the sewer overflowed
displacing its residents
rats, men and cockroaches
when in the morning the sun came up fantastic
he looked proud to show the dried mud
garbage and debris
taking its rightful place...

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here in this city
at dawn the dogs rule
they run wild through the empty avenues
chase app taxis
public service ambulances
loaded with victims
of panic syndrome
yesterday the rain caused flooding
and at night the sewer overflowed
displacing its residents
rats, men and cockroaches
when in the morning the sun came up fantastic
he looked proud to show the dried mud
garbage and debris
taking its rightful place
and I think how good this is...

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I hate ambulances because when I hear their sirens, I know that people have 
been hurt.
I'd give anything if accidents were something that people could avert.
Ambulance sirens make me sad because people may be dying or dead.
It's terrible to know that they're in pain and that they've bled.

When people get hurt, that's no good.
If I could save them, I would.
I feel so much grief and so much sorrow.
These unfortunate people may not have a tomorrow....

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Twenty-five wounded pedestrians,
At my door...
Twenty -five
Barely alive...
What should I do?
Call twenty-five ambulances?
Twenty-five EMS?
How'd I ever,
Get in this mess?

Why's everyone always comin'
To my door?
Has it got twenty-five
Pheromones?
Twenty-five scents?
Twenty-five invitations?

Perhaps I've gone mad
And no-one's there
I sit in my room,
And at the wall stare

Till they come to get me
Who-ever they are
If I answer the door,
They'll put my brain in a jar....

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Fabled Streets into spaces of loneliness,
field hospital in central park
and the wailing of ambulances, their serpentine allure
claiming its wild certitude amid
full tides of sacrifice in
ERs as trenches beaming with resistance and pride safe from
evil's dissidence, garments with no
self-glory intent, saving lives, saving grace.
Paradox is city's nick-name, and the virus
the killer of its narcissism.
New York lives like a Shakespearean tragedy
bending its ear to earth's resonnance....

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