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In a better time
I sat at a window
on the one hundred and first floor,
wine glass in hand
tuna salad on fine china.

In a better time
I gazed down at sail boats, BMWs
that looked like toys;
as sunlight became dusk
city lights twinkled.

In a better time
when dusk became dark
the Lamp of Liberty
shone bright,
a beam of safety.

Now
a void in the sky,
a gasping, gaping hole in America,
smoke, dust in the Lady's nostrils,
her cheeks covered with soot,
wet with tears.

Now
the dead to be counted, buried,
the living to weep, mourn,
the empty sky
a glaring ghost
of a better time.