There were gunshot—
one-two—
loud and clear.
The echo thundered,
crushed the night,
shook the windows.
The alley cats scattered—
they got afraid,
so the stray dogs
came after—
running.
They were familiar with this sound,
and with the smell of
gunpowder and blood.
The asphalt remembered too.
It was all too common
an occurrence—
yet they still trembled—
they all grew afraid.
They always will.
Then the siren wailing came after—
flashes of blue and red
take over.
Tomorrow’s news:
no names—
just numbers.
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