Richard Wilbur

A Fire-Truck

Right down the shocked street with a
                                             siren-blast
That sends all else skittering to the
                                                      curb,
Redness, brass, ladders and hats hurl
                                                      past,
    Blurring to sheer verb,
 
Shift at the corner into uproarious gear
And make it around the turn in a squall
                                             of traction,
The headlong bell maintaining sure and
                                                     clear,
    Thought is degraded action!
 
Beautiful, heavy, unweary, loud,
                                       obvious thing!
I stand here purged of nuance, my
                                         mind a blank.
All I was brooding upon has taken
                                                     wing,
    And I have you to thank.
 
As you howl beyond hearing I carry you
                                         into my mind,
Ladders and brass and all, there to
                                                   admire
Your phoenix-red simplicity, enshrined
    In that not extinguished fire.
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