today is the first
of a long October
an Indian summer
that will lapse upon
our shoulders
for decades
plumes of smoke etched
in the New York skyline
that will last forever
in the books
we will paint autumn
leaves a moist salty
shade of blue
in the driveway
of a man
who went off
in the name
of the dollar
leaving behind
two little girls
and a confused
widow who
will only cry
in private
during harvest we wait
for the phone call--
"we found his body"
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