Tuesday, and after: 2005
9/13/01 200 firefighters dead. 200.
343, actually, if exact numbers
mean anything anymore.
They didn’t, when I finally went
to see the hole.
If I didn’t know,
if the video did not loop over and over,
it would be just another development
fallen through, a hole
dug and fenced and left—
in Philly, we always have at least several—
if I didn’t know
if I couldn’t squint my eyes
just a bit
and see the televised images, a bitter mask
over this sunny June day.
Along the river, a woman patiently escorts
a dog so old and ill she can barely walk on her own,
which could have been me
half-carrying my most beloved old girl,
the weight of the
far heavier than the dog herself.
the city rising
taking itself to work
on a beautiful fall morning.
the city ever since