A Poem

[Sam Hane]

The Commute (or The Open-Air Station)

Each morning we have stared into the void,
this canyon gray where others met their end,
have witness borne to what had been destroyed,
have contemplated spouses, jobs and friends.

A cross of steel in silent tribute stands
hard by two buildings draped in widow's weeds.*
The days grow warm and long as calloused hands
and backs unbowed perform defiant deeds.

There are no birds this year in last year's nest,
the trees long since uprooted, blasted, gone,
but here we labor still and strive to best
this granite void and say, "We carry on."

Yet I can't help but wonder as I do:
How is it that I stand here, and not you?

Ana Areces  4/14/2004

*Two buildings on Liberty Street at the south end of the site that have been
since deemed structurally compromised and are being repaired from within,
and are covered from roof to street in black tarp.