Inside one of identical pairs of

elegant, tall, proud towers,

I waited tables.

I was on the 107th floor.

This proved to be more than just

a regular day’s work as metal shrieked

out of its place.

I was on the 107th floor

serving wine and busing out plates

when an airplane crashed on the left side façade.

I was on the 107th floor

as faces were set in panic.

I was on the 107th floor,

overlooking the pavement below.

I was afraid. I prayed.

I was terrified to be burnt to a crisp

like a fried pork-belly

or smoked like fish.

I chose to run for my life

on the 107th floor.

I was less a man

on the ground floor.

READ
No-street-smart food

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