September rain

September rain drips from the windowsill,
and splatters onto the floor.
An ambulance tears through,
and then a firetruck in its wake.

I want to shut the window,
and change the channel.

From another window,
in another neighborhood,
death has other sounds.

There were no sirens in my homeland,
almost never,
but for the crickets and the roosters
and the summer winds from the Sahara.

Dusty socks.
Dusty door handles.
Dusty trees.
Dusty hair.
Dusty caskets.

My dad, who now lives an hour away,
is calling my phone.

I pick up.

We share a Netflix account.

After we sort it out,
I’m not sure what to say,
so I ask him about the dust,
and we have a good laugh.

September in South Carolina
is not September in Cameroon
is not September on a residential street in Gaza City,
is not September in Chicago.

From the shattered windows,
the artillery shells in the distance
aren’t loud enough
to conceal the wailing of the children.

There are no sirens.
No one is coming
on this September night.