New York, untroubled like a yellow taxi
Shifting to the reverse gear, to see a pizzeria,
Which saw life butchered and hung
Like a butcher’s window. Life then, had stutters and hiccups.
It was never free-flowing and serene
As the Hudson. That morning, 16 years ago,
Some mad men cut the orb of the sun, like a 9’ inch pizza,
Blood dripping through like ketchup, spewing out
Of little sachets. This was September, the early days of autumn
When the sickle makes zigzag movements,
But not the scythe, and here,
You had toppings of life, blown from air to the ground,
As if there was nothing anyone could do,
To stop the carnage of four planes.
Inside a pizzeria, there was a little boy
With his mother, a jewish woman, looking out
Of the window to see, smoke filling
Like plumes from a dragon’s mouth.
They ran away to safety, and on the 27th floor
Of a nearby building, there was a man,
They had left behind, with a promise
To return in the afternoon. He could never
Keep his promise. While a child in Iraq,
Was asking his mother, where his daddy was,
And they met on that tower, one inside
And one out, both fathers of little children,
One had just bought a pizza, while the other loved pita bread,
But the comparison stopped there.
The glass window on the pizzeria broke
As like uncountable lenses on multicolored irises,
Everything went through glass that morning
Planes through glass windows, flesh through glass cubicles
While mirrors they crashed in fury.
While the word “papa” reflected through
So many surfaces, being fired
From wall to wall, until it was subdued
By the sound of fire engines.
In the pizzeria, blood and ketchup
Stood side by side, while in that tall building
Cause and consequence, stood abreast,
Blood being let off through wounded breasts.
The Jewish woman holding the child,
Was as warm as the pizza oven in the pizzeria,
There was something fresh leavening inside of her,
And it was no sprinkle of yeast.