She rose early that day,
felt something in the air.
Her radio was busy talking,
and she hobbled across the
forest-green rug for the tv clicker,
just in time to see the first World
Trade Tower erupt in a flare,
like a magician was pulling flames
from a ice-tray,
flames high, dirtying the glowing blue air.
A second plane
disappeared into the building.
How did we know it was
terrorists, smashing our world?
From California we watched
it over and over, sick to our stomachs
as thousands died, storm-dark smoke
curled and grasped with malignant force
through the cement canyons of
New York where lamps shone through
green leaves at dusk and we’d ridden
through Central Park behind a clip-clopping
horse and our first chiild was born high
above the Hudson and we ate hot chestnuts in
front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art,
and had tea at The Plaza and saw famous
people in underground parking garages.