What better thought can a retiree
muse about close to the end of the road
than what Heaven might be like,
which I did one dreamy day.
I rested on my back patio
when the sharp scream of a siren
made my heart clutch, as I knew
something bad had happened—
fire, accident, hospital.
That blasting sound signals trouble
and I figured there’d be no sirens in Heaven
as I’d be blissfully lounging
and no wail would pierce the air.
Then I thought of those other Sirens,
women who lured men into perdition.
They won’t sing come hither songs in Heaven,
neither will men spin wiles
at innocent, young, beating hearts.
With a nodding thought about
whether motorcycles or football
would roar in Heaven, I dozed off
with time still left to dream.
Originally published in Lit Shark Magazine