Poetry

To the front in the road
blue Metro traffic cop lights flash,
a roadblock is set up and pistols
are aimed at the occupants of a car
in the bright daylight
and bombs are removed from the criminals
which the PCF-community guard report
was meant for the blowing up of teller machines.
 
An armoured car parks at a bank
where four guards with machineguns
and two with money canisters jump out
and one of them commands me to halt
when on the sidewalk I want to pass
and all of them become very angry
when I do not take notice of their antics
and screaming.
 
At times I do hear jets bursting through the sound barrier,
see the snow-white lines against the bright blue sky
when I hang the washing
and wait upon the winter sun to bake everything dry.
 
Right through the night my dogs bark
at a police helicopter
that swishes up and down
our well to do suburb
 
and it hits me when we drive into the garage at home
that unknowing we may be living in a war zone
 
but it is safe where we live
behind steel palisades, barred windows
and steel gates
with a emergency button to press
for the ADT-security’s armed response
that arrives within five minutes.
 
[Reference: PCF = Police Community Forum.]