The alarm you couldn't name

I woke at 2 AM to a sound—

a siren, wailing through the night,

but I couldn't tell which kind,

couldn't place it right.

Was it ambulance?

Fire truck?

Police?

Something unknown,

something I'd never heard before,

something that made my heart

race in my chest, alone

in the dark, trying to know

if I should care, if I should get up,

if this was something

that mattered, something

that required my attention.

But I couldn't tell.

The sound moved away,

fading into the distance,

moving toward or away—

I couldn't know which, couldn't sense

which direction it came from,

which way it was going,

which way I should turn

my head to listen.

I lay in bed,

my brain refusing to let it go,

refusing to settle,

refusing to accept

that I'd never know

what that siren meant,

where it was headed,

what emergency

was happening

somewhere in the night,

somewhere I couldn't reach,

somewhere I couldn't know.