Some night when the car-horns all blow, it won't be for a wedding.

Some day the usual sirens and whistles won't mean noon,

Or midnight It won't even be fire.

It won't be any particular time, either, like eight a.m.,

When the mill and town whistles sound off, where I live,

The other day I was laughing at myself, waiting,

Thinking what if the sirens caught me right now

With my pants down or reading a magazine, or both,

Or down cellar painting the floor or bundling newspapers.

It could come then.

I hardly expect it to come when I am being dignified,

Probably when I am closing a window, wiping dishes, picking up towels,

Or locking the car, sleeping late, or phoning,

It would come at some time like that,

We dig them out of lava now

Where they were playing with dogs when Vesuvius burst,

And pulling round flat loaves out of the ovens,

Or running. A few of them are embedded trying to run,

We are waiting.