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. 

This poem is about: 
My community
My country
Our world

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