sept. 11

(edited 4:56 pm)

Jeff and I were in Tokyo at our friend Alison G.'s apartment Words and music ©1998 Jeff Bohnhoff
(reprinted here with permission)

On a dirty street corner beneath a steel sky;
old Enid plays his blues
as the crowds just rush on by.
Just a crazy old man
-- dented sax and tangled hair --
wailing out his benedictions.

Crumbling old brick building,
Mary drinks her tea.
A well-worn Bible and a blanket on her knees.
She hears the gunfire from the alley down below,
while sirens sing of Armageddon.
Manhattan sleeps tonight
under a blanket of new-fallen snow.
Quiet as the light where towers pierce
the fog softly glows.
I can feel the ghosts haunting the streets far below.

A full moon rises, pulling people like the tide.
The snow keeps falling on an ocean deep and wide.
Each fragile crystal melts into the sea
in a moment of transition.
A frozen blanket, bathed in silver light;
the streets lie muted in the alchemy of night.
And when the spring comes,
who knows what will have grown
in the cracks between the stones.

Old Enid dreams, in the warmth of vented steam
of better days to come
Mary's fears seem to ring in her ears
as she stares out the window
at a million frozen, falling stars.