Ten Years Ago

I was working downtown. Both before and after the WTC collaspes. Close enough, that I frequently walked to the subway station (E termimal) in the WTC. It was a longer walk than the closest station, but a faster express train.

In the long dark months after the collapse, I wrote this. The “pit” as it was called, burned not for days, but for months. Till the beginning of December—and everyday, there was smoke and dust, and the smell.

--One word has been editted—at first the totals were thought to be higher, and five (thousand) has been corrected to 3 (thousand).

Memorial

I am nothing more than star dust.

Long, I held myself to be,

Just, collected, the scattered dust,

from some past eternity

How random --how beautiful

Majesty, in such a simple form

humbled and at the same time, blessed,

From such stuff to be born.

But these days the dust I breathe

The dust I have become,

Is the dust of three thousand souls

And more, in me, as one

My city is a charnel house.

It sears me to the core

Now I am the dust of human souls

Of stardust, I am no more.