Tourists at the WTC

We come, then go.
We gawk, we stare,
absorb it though

there’s nothing there.
No damage left.
It’s clean and spare.

When a planet shifts
we want to see.
We come, we lift

our cameras high.
We strike a pose.
We mourn, we sigh.

We were not here.
We’re glad we weren’t.
We wish our fear

gone with the dirt
and all the ash.
We feel so hurt

that all this passed
but then convert
our awe to cash

and buy a shirt,
a flag, a book.
We dare to flirt

with second looks
and our recall.
We think: we shook,

we cried, that’s all.
The hole is huge.
We did not fall.