Turning Cheeks Poem by Kale Beaudry

The black smoke twisted and rolled, curling upwards in what seemed an endless spiral. Broken glass littered the street, not one fragment without a dropp of slowly coagulating blood. Random faces on the sidewalk stared upwards, mouths agape at the scene that had suddenly exploded in the previously quiet Monday afternoon. People had stopped their Buicks and Toyotas, their taxis and buses, their bikes and skateboards, to see the building off 24th and 101st - the one which had just birthed a flurry of explosions, shattered windows and airborne bodies.

The American flag shone like a golden spire atop the crippled structure, yet hung limp at the sudden lack of wind. Silence had dawned upon 24th and 101st as each individual stopped and continued to stare, just stare. No honking, no screams or cries of shock and horror, not even the mellow sound of breath.

Then the gaped mouths shut as the Buicks and Toyotas, the taxis and buses, the bikes and skateboards, continued to their original destination. The people of the city started to move, restoring the overwhelming sound of a busy metropolis. Wheels and feet ran over bloody glass and crumpled bodies, now oblivious to the black smoke engulfing the building above them.