My iPod buds must think it queer
to stop without a precinct near
beside an alley where muggers make
a living preying on folk's fear.
My iPod squeals and makes me shake
to ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sounds that sweep
of sirens' screams and screeching brake.
The alley's deserted, dark and deep
but I have life I want to keep
and deadbolts to lock before I sleep—
and deadbolts to lock before I sleep.