9.11.2001
He walks past the metal
Bench—in Riverside Park—
Covered in fluttering crows,
And through the flour
That never seems to settle—
From the Upper East Side
Bakery— hiding the city in
An industrialized fog.
By the time he reaches
Café Lalo, the crows have
Turned into tourists and
The bakery dust has
Cleared into a light blue sky.
September in New York.
85 degrees. 9 am.
3 missed calls from work.
A cup of coffee replaces
His briefcase; relieving
His hand with warmth
Against rough callouses.
He puts his phone to his
Ear and listens to the
Voicemails he can’t quite
Comprehend
Watching passing faces
Grow and shrink, paces
Quicken and slow, and
The reflection of clouds
In the windows of Sky-
Scrapers that no one
Ever thought could fall.
Until his coffee rippled.