by Robert M. Dilley
"The tallest buildings ever," my father's voice rising higher
his hands spinning the wheel of a Buick Skylark Sportwagon
when a fill-up cleaned the windshield with a smile and a squeegee
We emptied our attentions into Manhattan
then filled them up again with twin tower visions across the horizon
from Sunday to Sunday, along the turnpike, and over the Pulaski skyway
we drove rivets through girders to Grandmother's in Jersey City
Hardened structures of steel, and men of similar origin
were swinging by nerves, hanging by the courage to forge America
into the future, for my father, and his children's children
They filled our eyes again, with seething horror
wings and concrete crumbling with loved ones
undone into dust, piled into rubble
lost years aloft, dust doesn't settle
And still, it's not easy to lift these eyes skyward
to ferry them across the Henry Hudson
or drive them south on the Westside Highway
searching east, through debris, and shattered memories
sending them far off to uncertain sands
where men fall like bricks
so the highest building ever
can stand
Robert M. Dilley is a new, old writer. Writes about life experiences, his family, humor, politics.
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