Back to the poetry because afterall, 9/11 is so over. The monsoon isn't though and that is good. Rain is always good, keeps everything fresh if you will.


The Chain Reaction
(for Matt, whoever he is)

It started with the interpreter
then the mayor, where we lived
between Wood and West
long ago everyone was watching,
considering for a few moments
the love that ran between the tall Mexican
and his nurse without any words to fall over,
it was brief and ended nicely
but only went as far as skin.
He likes a little sugar not smoke
but the machine was on all night
and the rest of the world became
silent from pouting, there were no
falling stars, no recorders
but because it was important,
we remembered it and put it into
action for replay in the lives of others.
We are doing such important things here,
taking notes but the archives
put psychology into too many books,
forgot to take our passing thoughts
out for a walk before Mr. Whatshisname
counted the windows and secured
the last door with his arthritic
panhandling wrists, I remember him
I remember all of his children
but never saw them or wanted
to go home with their captives,
didn't eat under their tricky umbrellas.
We took his generation seriously
without making sure first, checking
into what the neighbors said later on.
It happened again with that one too,
he moved in and when it was over
took my two shoulders in his hands
and that was it, we were shaking
and whispering I love you in the car,
I know I could honey but for now
this bed is all mine, is all narrow,
is all made up for the evening,
is all I ever wanted. Just another mistake
but if only you hadn't said
I'm getting better, healing up.
That never works but once.