seven flights, solo.
9/11 memories
echo off cement.
thinking, as i climb,
how descent with covered mouth
would have been that day.
clearing the runways,
not tripping, not inhaling
ashes of a friend.
seeing things, I'm still --
hearing things in the stairwell.
voices? no. music.
some joe citizen
playing bach, as though to me --
for six minutes' peace.
_______________________________
This just happened today, so I thought I'd do what you're supposed to do with weblogs and blog it. I can only give account for me, but I rarely hear radio music floating down from the heights above when I'm in the stairwell, nevermind a symphonic piece. I can never think of such juxtapositions as mere coincidence.
coincidence of juxtaposition.
no such thing.
glad you agree.