It wasn't the high clean yelp of the law

It wasn't the high, clean yelp of the law

or the heavy bray of a truck on fire.

It was a sound like a rusted saw

climbing a wet and electrical wire.

I stood in my kitchen, skin gone cold,

pressing my head to the window pane.

The street was empty, grey and old,

washing itself in a sudden rain.

No lights came flashing to claim the noise,

no engine hummed in the dark below.

Just a warning voice that lost its poise,

telling me something I don't want to know.