Fire Engine Red

Cacophony.

It never ends.

Whirring, whirring, louder, louder,

Screeching. Scrawling.

An arrowhead of sound, really,

Fired down the street,

Straight, stripped, raw, bleeding.

Nothing feels as loud.

Nothing feels as loud as the memory.

Wet roads, rain falling,

Red, red, red coming down the road,

Red, red, red in my palm when I touch it my side,

Grey cage, red paint; greasy iron scent.

“We’ll get you out of here in just a minute, love”

“Wait. Roger. Where is Roger?”

A screech of receding metal, wounded steel,

Jagged teeth – please don’t bite my arm –

“Tell me where is Roger!”

Unheard, beneath the great, shrill motor.

Red, red, red, everywhere I look.

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work