Hitting Home

I looked out across the marshes
of Hewlett Bay,
the New York skyline faded,
obscured,
billows of clouds, black
smoke on the horizon.

A plane crashed into the Twin Towers.
An accident?
But, then a second plane hit.

An attack?
Lies, rumors . . .
An act of war?
Unreality . . .
WAR
so impersonal,
fought in a distant land
by somebody else’s
brothers and sons.
Now,
so close to home
The Towers,
beacons of America
toppled.
3000 people dead,
missing,
firefighters, police,
office workers

people from my neighborhood,
people I knew, people I met,
people I passed on the street
people.
Alumni of my high school,
my son’s football coach,
everyday people,
gone!

Problems a half a globe away
were now at our front door.
And on that day
the big, wide world
became a little emptier
and very, very
small.