Towers, A Nine Eleven Poem Poem by John F. McCullagh

In my minds geography
The towers still stand tall.
They rise up from their common grave
And overawe the shore

Above the clouds the diners feast
At windows on the World
as swarms of chefs and waiters
hang on their every word

In my mind's eye, no bells need toll
As mourners read a name.
No firemen in bunker gear
race up the stairs in vain.

With eyes wide closed
Deny, deny, the fast approaching planes
Deny the bodies in the street
Deny the dust and flames

But they are gone and you are gone
And never will I hear
Your soft and sexy gentle voice
Or hold your body near

Late at night near Trinity
among the weathered stones
Do I hear the weeping of lost souls
-Or is it just the wind 's low moan?