Time is Short - April 12 2022

Time is Short

April 12 2022

You hear it first.

The sound, rising and falling

like long strained breaths.

The high-pitched moan

wailing its distress.

The strident keening,

cutting the air

like a scalpel's glistening edge.

Lights, in the rear view mirror

urgently flashing

red, red, red.

Drawing attention

like some garish neon sign,

illuminating the night

for its mission of mercy and care.

You veer

onto the sloping shoulder,

scattering gravel

before coming to a stop;

the ambulance

dopplering by

in a rush of troubled wind.

Then the sound as quickly recedes,

leaving behind

a restless silence

for the few seconds it lasts.

A stillness

that seems unnatural,

because cars abhor a vacuum

and time is short.

So you slip back into the flow

until it's bumper-to-bumper again;

irritable drivers

glancing at phones

and itching to give it gas.

And as you drive

on auto-pilot

your mind idly wanders.

A crisis

in a total stranger's life,

and all you could do

was stand to one side and watch.

A moment of high drama

you imagine is still going on.

Or may very well have stopped;

the heart shocked

bleeding staunched

time of death called,

behind a curtain

on some distant stage

to someone somewhere else.

Not that there's anything new

about sirens going off

and cars pulling over;

forgotten, mostly

as soon as the sound has died.

Because time is short

and life goes on

and the car won't drive itself.