9/9/11, Helicopters in Lower Manhattan, Poem



I wake this morning in lower
Manhattan to the broken
record roar of helicopter hover,
finding my heartbeat synchronous–
not wanting to be here
anymore right now
September 9, 2011.

Remember a woman, blonde,
with a blue knit cap, December 2001,
caught at the edge
of the slope, her skis sideways, stuck aslant,
afraid to just slide down, to
stay still too; she’d brought
her kids for fun, her husband
gone, they’d only found his
hand, itself lucky. My own
husband reached out his
across the cold,
coaxing her restart.

Away today, he tells me,
over the phone, not to worry
about participating in any event, hoopla,
no disrespect intended.

(As always all rights reserved.)

Explore posts in the same categories: 9/11, poetry

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