Sept 11, 2001

It begins with a boom

and a fireball
wreckage rains, sirens race  
black smoke billows. 

Papers float like
confused confetti
looking for a parade. 

How many people cry out to God 
when they see a second plane hit 
the phallus of American capitalism?  

Eyes glued, mouths open
we watch people jump
helpless to help them.

Then comes a roar 
louder than Niagara.
Day turns to night 
in lower Manhattan.

A hole in the sky 

a tomb of three thousand. 

Those who can't
outrun the rushing cloud 
duck into delis and lobbies

the towers in their eyes and lungs.    

Cars covered in ash
broken windows and stray shoes.
Everything else either 
blown out or burned up. 

Fire trucks and firemen 
buried in debris.
People covered in dust
struggle to breathe. 


The fright in their faces 
still haunts me. 




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