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.
