Last night New York put on her lights,
impregnated with souls in search of direction
she wrapped herself around us; a quilt against
the autumn breeze. In the Silk Stocking District,
Chanel No 5 seeped through her pores
dancing in our nostrils. The clickety-clicks
of Red Bottoms Heels against the pavement marked
the tempo of a New York Minute.
There was no morning.
Children across the five boroughs
lineup against fire retardant walls or
curl up under miniature desks, or cry.
My city is buzzing with a noise so loud
we can barely hear the steel and glass on concrete.
Her lungs fill with smoke, as a lifeless bird
amputates her with the precision of a butcher.
The suffocating sound of sirens serves as
background music. Police officers and
firefighters deliver a dance they’ve never rehearsed.
Where once stood, tall and proud, giants of steel
testament to our strength as a nation,
are no more than graves for thousands.
We watch as the second of two giants
sink from his pedestal.