It's Wednesday.

The cirrus clouds are long gone.

Thick layers of dust paint the town gray.

All I can hear are echoes,

Of last minute prayers,

And desperate, emergency calls--

Rubble and ash scatter, ubiquitously

Sheetrock, business papers, and wallet sized pics scatter the streets.

Haunted by propellers,

Buildings forever ablaze,

The ripest apple, withered and bruised

Unhealed, an open wound