One cup of instant latte
hardly fits between my thighs;
I am the great navigator
bound for a date with corporate
destiny. Another tick mark on the calendar
counting days, hours, seconds,
(minutiae looks good in a daytimer)
until piny breezes and mountain lodges
are my coworkers, conference rooms.
Even traffic could not ruin my mood.
NPR tells me a double-engine plane
hit the World Trade Center.
The pilot must have been flying
in a fog.
06/12/02
This ceiling collapses, traps legs, impales
my arm, smolders with no sprinklers
to put out this fire. Screams echo,
run down the stairs to safety.
Window frames pretend to hold glass,
glint and tease, whisper “Go ahead,
JUMP!” Seventeen floors loom smaller
when faced with death on a spit.
Elevator doors open, people pour out
lifelessly, a fugue plays on speakers -
cantata for the comatose. A siren,
faintest sound, grows louder, promises
salvation
wakes me from my daydream.
© 2003 Jason C. Jones