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Across the bay, Manhattan's Towers soar
as pellucid as
Tuesday as it dawns
on you aboard, where on B Deck you pour
down high
gain stocks as if you'd snap up pawns
in this skills of chess you have honed
so well
you've made them tailor gains that speculate
at other's losses
(you know when to sell).
A clang. You're mad because your ferry's late.
"Look! It's déjà vu!" someone screams he
sees.
Stare... it's some horror flick? "It's smoke! It sears
my eyes, and
spews down ash on Hudson's breeze!"
You gasp at Death, your heart beats, in
arrears.
Reports explode so loud they hammer waves.
"Our World Trade
Center's dust, my best friends' graves!"
