Albany Poetry 
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Old Glory

Kate Murphy

Under the Towers

Hidden in the pile, the stewardess in her chair,
the man with is cell phone, calling his wife,
a crushed fire hat, torn raincoat, night stick,
arms, ankles, a scalp of white hair, brocaed
suitcase full of toys.

Hidden in the pile, the sliced wing on the airplane
a myriad of buttons, morning coffee still in plastic cups,
computers with broken faces, a tangle of telephone wire,
the elevator key, nineteen empty hands or more,

Hidden in the pile,
your heart and mine,
grief, noise, stir of ahses
seared smoke,

October, 2001