Tower 2, Floor 87

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7

Someone told them not to evacuate
Smoke and fire gushing from the wounds of
Tower 1

It was an accident after all, wasn’t it?
Not to worry, Mom.
I’m okay, Dad.

The phone, still attached to the wall
But the line so quickly dead
The world collapsing on itself

We let go of her forever
That last hope of innocence
Smothered in a ton of ash.

(Previously published in Some Words: A Place For Poetry, June 2003; Poetry.com, Sep 2003)

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