Nine Eleven

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     Like smouldering torches the towers

     stand blackened against the sky

     then floor by floor,

     almost majestically,

     collapse to the ground.

 

     No use praying to your God

     that those you love are still alive.

      It was God that pierced them.

      'Allahu Akbar';

      God is Great they shout

      as they fly a mass

      of tortured bodies

      through the sky.

      Death is the point of life.

 

      And it's God that throws dice

      to discover who lives.

      A man returns the birthday shirt,

      a gift from his mother.

      If he'd liked it, he'd be at his desk

      no longer here to say thank you.

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      That day, across the ocean,

      a book is launched.

      How to be single, cook badly

      but get away with it.

      Flippancy personified.

 

      It's a wine bar party,

      mini-speeches made, copies sold.

      Great being single.

      You don't have to phone

      to say you'll be late and

      can cook any way you want.

 

      Beside the towers they grieve,

      yearning for the call

      that the one they love is just late.

      But in this randomized world,

      luck strewn like straw in the wind,

      the call never comes.