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SEPTEMBER 11th
by WADE NEWMAN
Some other mother's cousin's son,
Some other college roommate's bride,
Some other sister's neighbor's boss,
Crashed, or was crushed, or burned alive.
Another's ash that is not mine,
A charred flesh smell not kin or friend,
Drift uptown with the quiet wind,
Enter my cozy room's dead end.
Reproduced photos of those now lost
Plastered on bus stalls and store-front glass
Populate the empty space
This acrid stench can barely mask,
Which I without a choice breathe in,
Who can't extract the slightest trace
Of someone from these tons of grief,
And now must mourn each stranger's face.
(from "Poisoned Apples," Pivot Press, @Copyright Wade Newman 2003)
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