And three marked squad cars came around
So closely spaced that when one slowed,
The second almost felt Three's nose.
They navigated corners tight
And zoomed away, right out of sight
To make their quick way, bit by bit
Into the complex opposite.
Then several more did come along,
On their way to right some wrong:
Marked car, unmarked, marked again,
Then one with lights but no siren.
They stayed a while, then left again
With no sign what had passed within.
I watched until the last was gone,
And wondered what was going on.
What need was there for such amount
(That's seven, if you didn't count)
Of police cars, at bright midday?
I couldn't see so cannot say.
The Mystery on Hillside grows --
"Of Hillcrest Acres", I suppose.
(Where'd they get these "hill" names at?
If that's a hill, I'll eat my hat.)
My garden plot, it grows but slow,
But at least I got a show.
The wondering helped pass the time.
But now all day I'll think in rhyme!
Poetry is not my fight.
My scansion's off, my rhymes are trite.
See, this is why I stick to prose!
In retrospect, this poem ... um, never mind.