The Draft

The siren is only a Tuesday rehearsal,

a long, mechanical moan that means nothing

until the sky actually turns the color of a bruise.

I went out to the yard anyway.

The metal doors are orange with scale,

grinding against the concrete frame

when I kicked them to check the latch.

Down there, the air is thick with the smell of wet dirt.

A single cricket, pale as a fingernail,

sat on the top step in the shadows.

It didn't move when the light hit it,

just waited for the lid to shut.