A driver minding his own business,

I saw and heard, or heard and saw,

A car coming as fast as a shock

Happening, lights hidden in daylight,

On and off and on, part of the noise.

Behind it the noise was a fire-truck

Rushing the air-slot the car split.

Then both were past, and I moving

Was a right hand brushed on left hand.

I would not like to be people

In a burning house five miles out

In a sea of green summer earth.

I would not like to be the driver

Gun-gunning the fire-truck. I would

Like being the first driver, racer

Into the future, ripper of time open,

Slammer into a wall rushing away

From me. To be nowhere till the fire.

Or I could be people earlier or later

On the same road, not burning at all.

Could they choose to be, for instance,

Me? I am on fire, the expected

An hour from now, arriving, possibly.