Sometimes I hear the cars crash
on the highway next to my house.
If you
were to sit here with me, and
against the hum of the window-mounted air conditioner,
just listen too, then
you may even conjure a scurrying of feet,
whispered memories heaved upon strangers from
throats filling with blood,
hearts maybe literally broken.
You could
imagine the sirens roaring through
the day
or the night
or the... well, you pick a time,
toward the heaps of metal,
scorched alloy and battered, discarded pistons.

But mostly, if you were at my house,
you would hear a crash,
and then the squealing of tires,
and then nothing more,
and nothing less,
than a long silence, intermittently postponed
by car horns,
bathing in the sacred delight of knowing
at least it wasn't them.

Well what can I say except 'perfect'..

Damn these double posts..

I live on a main highway and hear the sirens the screeching of tyres, the metal against metal and it stops your heart beating for that split second, so within your poem, I hear ya...