Saturday, October 4, 2014
Nine eleven two thousand fourteen.
She stands gazing out window, envisions bodies from
New York high rises, falling to cement sidewalk.
First responders climbing to rescue as
stairways collapse beneath them,
passengers on plane fighting back,
families posting photos of missing on chain link fences.
Terror of remembering causes her to tremble with anger,
thirteen years later..
She wonders that if memories are so vivid to a San Franciscan;
what must those who lived through it at
ground zero be feeling?
Morning quiet is pierced by police car sound that yells,
"I want your attention."
Motorcycle cop blocks traffic as police car
slowly crosses intersection,
followed by one runner carrying a sizable American flag.
Only two additional runners follow.
All three runners wearing patriotic t-shirts in patriotic
colors,with images of nine eleven victims.
Runners are gone as quickly as they appeared.
Like a tigress protecting her cubs;
she wants to pick up that red, white and blue flag,
honor victims and survivors,
put an end to wars, killings.
She wants to think of peace, poetry, passion,
see Glenda, the good witch from the Wizard Of Oz,
float down to earth,
place those magic, red slippers on feet of the world,
so we can all follow that yellow, brick road,
Putin in a Hitler mask,
and to where,
smiling monkeys, peace flags in hand, fly overhead,
come out from behind that curtain in Oz, singing,
"Come together, right now, over peace."
Nancy Keane 9/21/2014