One day I left my boarding house
on the Rue de Vaugirard
to get air in the light autumn rain.
Armed with umbrella, beret,
Scarf, and overcoat,
I strolled the arrondissement.
Soon a Parisian pretzel greeted me,
autos pressing forward, from every side,
almost willfully blocking the flow.
I then spotted a safety vehicle
stranded in the jammed melee
blaring, flashing in the misty eve.
Shouts and curses of course erupted
no driver yielding even a centimeter
to let the conveyance by.
After smirking at the hubbub,
I squeezed by to continue my route
covering several blocks in a half hour.
But later when I turned back,
I saw to my surprise that the
ambulance had hardly budged a meter.
Tout de suite I looked to thank heaven
wondering to myself, what if
I was the one there inside?
© 1972, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved.
