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,
philodendron.
Hidden in the pile,
your heart and mine,
grief, noise, stir of ahses
seared smoke,
beams.
October, 2001