My TV caught fire

Here’s something I wrote about a month after the 9/11 attacks.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The page

A month ago, my TV caught fire
With the explosion of a new age
The smoke and ash of dying dreams
Buried the remains of a scattered page

On that page was written the record
Of a trial, a trade, a law, a life
A deal gone sour over mislaid details
A string of betrayals by a faithless wife

On that page was written a telephone bill
For the last desperate call that was made
To her husband’s answering machine
Before she fell victim to a box-cutter blade

That page laid out the measurements
For an insured engagement ring
Thousands died for a political world
But they never did a goddamn thing

On that page was printed a forgotten e-mail
“I’m sorry, honey, for the things that I said
In the heat of the moment, I let my tongue slip
I’ll do better, I promise,” was the way that it read

That page was trimmed with the threadbare
Lives of men and women I never knew
It was soaked in the searching tears
That I spat out so hard for you

A month ago, and that page has been printed
A trillion times over with words bitter and rank
To describe the evil that brought down the ash
A month has gone by — and the page is still blank

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