September

He sits in combat boots and a new, soft, $2 toobig shirt, playing Mary Had a Little Lamb sweetly on the guitar. Outside it is smoky cool September. He plucks out the chords. Mary had a little mary had a mary had a little little lamb. It is a sweet guitar song for stutterers. And he is singing. Smokey September outside. In New York there are two less buildings. I see the pictures from where I sit, smoke curling behind the second aeroplane, smoke billowing from the first building, smoke falling on the people of the city. In France a little old lady says, We are all Americans today. They sing the national anthem in other nations. I go to class, forget the candlelight vigil, and feel strange. Everyone is tired. But today I lay on the roof of my building and lifted the sleeves of my sweater so as to soak up the heat into my arms. A brilliant, beautiful, smoky September day. And now the air comes through the screen as he has moved on to a different song and it smells of leaves getting ready to fall outside. A city fallen, a September like always, and a soundtrack to it all.



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