smoke rises and the winds blow over Queens
the acrid stench surrounds the TV's carnage
my blisters unhealed
open sores from six miles in heels
the 59th Street Bridge parade
small reminders that sting even when
liquor decays the hazy memories
the phone keeps ringing
I'm okay, I'm okay, considering
We are all accounted for
Our little coterie
one was late to work, got off the train
hung over
to buy some asprin
walk outside to clear his head
small miracle that kept him whole
another quit his job
across the street
the week before
feel guilty feeling so lucky
we flick from channel to channel
reception is barely there
antennas somewhere in the rubble
eyes curiously dry, all of us
unable to take it all in
towers replaced
by a pillar of smoke on the horizon
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