Portland Fire Department 1912

From the Fire Houses the muscled, paired horses
Bolt out at full canter on the silent film,
Miraculously found in a closet after 70 years
And restored.  There are low ramps leading from
The firehouses to the street, so nothing impedes
These fleshy engines coming straight out at
The camera.  There is no silence in this film.
The shod horses clatter on the stones.
See the sparks there rise from their hooves. The company
Wagons rattle with their loads of runged oak.
(These small men lifted these, and perched on them
Fifty feet in the air?) 

The engine company
Leads. Its driver leans into the curve as
It leaves the station. The horses race at
The slightest touch of the reins, no whips needed
Here, and, on the back, a man lies athwart
The firebox of the engine, a firm brace
Visible in his arms and legs. The hose
Company, the heaviest load, biggest truck,
Largest pair, joins the race in the streets
To keep the city from burning a fourth time.

The spokes of the wheels are a blur in the film,
And that boy in knickers stands open-mouthed
In the street while all that determined force
Crashes by; men in bowler hats stand back
On the sidewalks, respectfully, or cheer.

Men and horses return, the horses at trot,
Blasts of white from their nostrils, and then they
Swing away from the firehouse door, to back
The truck up the ramp, and to home and oats,
Waiting for another call. Then the men
Who use them can be seen: brave, determined men,
Much like us,  small and mortal, standing
Relaxed besides the unencasable might.