Tower Two
I have since imagined you–
a thousand pounds ofpaper, escaping windows
floating to safety
from a hundred stories higher.
I have since spoken to you on the bathroom floor
where towel meets tile
where I sat while you washed
the subway off your scalp,
where I asked you, nightly, what you had for lunch
then told you about my day, my lunch,
buttered corn and mashed potatoes.
Every day like Thanksgiving.
I have since kept you in a rubber band
tied around my dollars,
and in other quirks and quiddities
inherited like skin.
And I have worn your book bag from the bombing
With my string braided bracelet in the zipper loop
until someone stole it at the gym.
But I have avoided your smoke-stained shirt
from that same prescient day, hanging lonesome
in the basement,
too much a symbol of the time
you got away.