Shutters are up on front of station—engines gleam exposed.
Two firemen puck a sliothar to pass time
in the half-time between emergencies.
The ball rises, thick stitched moon over traffic light, red.
The pure boldness of these responsible men, spilling out over
the curbs—their sniggers at a tugged warning from an older one
who waters sweetpea plants on the station’s windowsills:
‘Careful on that road, lads,‘ as he tilts the typical green can.
Autumn’s air wraps her hands around us—dice of delicacy
under wire, coil, tank, hose. Chill will come, and we’ll always
know this. Hear their attention in the green dip, the go of sirens—