She knows it isn't ladylike to stare
At all the people waiting over there,
Some of them crying, some just standing 'round
Another who is lying on the ground,
Who may be merely hurt, or may be dead.
Nor is it ladylike to watch the spread
that dark liquid oozing toward the ditch
From underneath the upturned auto which
Looks like some modern sculpture or a beer
Can crushed once it's been emptied. She can hear
The sirens screaming swiftly to the site.
Although she doesn't think it is polite,
She watches. Now she feels the pulsing throb
helicopter blades. She'd like a job
With the police so she herself could drop
Out of the line of cars, pull over, stop,
All in the line of duty as it were,
A licit and legitimate voyeur.
The backed-up traffic slowly inches by
On the far shoulder, gives her a chance to try
For one last, hasty, thirsty look before
She's civilized and ladylike once more.