It was the quiet night

It was the quiet night,

the kind that presses in,

makes you listen harder

to your own blood.

Then it came.

A sound.

Not the police, too thin.

Not an ambulance, no hurry in it.

Just a high, reedy thing,

stretching like pulled taffy.

It caught on the wet brick

of the apartment buildings,

seemed to cling there,

a stain on the air.

Urgent, yes.

But empty.

Like a promise made by a ghost.