My son thinks sirens are sheer magic.
He becomes emergency vehicles,
careening around corners, couches, cats,
channels them in full-throated glory, whirrs,
shrills, and screeches echoing through the house.
He has practiced their sounds and rhythms,

his ambulance and fire truck, not to be confused with
state, tribal, county, or city police. The sirens go on
and on—the whining and whirring and whinging—

and on for what must be an eternity. My son,
(only four and already taking after his brothers
who are big-city lawyers), argues he is inside,
so this is his inside voice, and there is a tornado
coming so the siren needs to be loud. The sirens
resume while I search for a line that I almost
had ready for a poem. I retreat to the tornado shelter,
slide on headphones, while my boy wails away,
embodies the joy of being the siren’s song.