Sunday Poem

My father at one point became in charge of making fire engines for Mack Motors.
Here is a great moment from my childhood. —N.P

Father Arrives in the Triumphal Car

Astride 
a red 
cacophony 
of siren and bell,
home comes 
father driving 
a new fire 
engine,
high leather seat
more red
than the long
red sweep
of fender,
yellow
ladders
snapped
in place
as are
black
hoses with
their
shiny
silver 
nozzles.
The trim
around
the door
cutouts
is real gold
“to airy
thinness
beat.”
The shocked
brown 
neighbor 
houses 
take
a step
back,
and 
Bruce Held
with his
attic full 
of toy
Alpine
villages
and electric
trains
is
envious
at

last.

by Nils Peterson