Chicano Poet

Monday, October 10, 2005

The 9/11 Tourist

Henry was a tourist on the observation level
when the airplane hit
and a snow of paper flew outwards,

the black smoke rising,
the orange flame of sunset
so early in the morning.

The smell of burning plastic, people,
paper, office equipment, office supplies,
paint and metal billow in the sky.

Down on the ground the firefighters
look like ants in red pants.
Henry said don’t look down.

Suddenly the building started pancaking.
Henry’s feet go out from under him.
Henry breathes in the cement dust,

he sees iron beams somersault by him,
nearly missing his head
time after time.

When the building stops crumbling,
Henry finds himself standing in the rubble.
Henry walks away looking white as a ghost.


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