Rain of people
I hear the cough first, then see the man.
I canít get the image of the falling Twin Towers out of my head.
I even knew some of the people I saw jumping from out of the windows.
You donít work in a place like that for so long and not get choked up Ė even if all you do is clean floors. You know the faces of those who come and go each day.
I miss that life more than anything.
I always saw myself as someone important because I got to clean places movers and shakers walked.
I saw myself as part of the world economy, one of those people in the pyramid that hold up the planetís wealth Ė even though I still had to go home to the same dingy apartment and the same crying kids.
I felt the first plane hit, then saw the fireball from the second.
Then I saw the sky raining people and heard their bones breaking when they struck the ground, each rain drop full of blood and puss.
I felt scared Ė and then angry.
How could anybody want to do anything like this to us?
When the towers finally fell, I felt relieved, as if that cloud of dust and debris as the final curtain on a horror I could no longer stand to watch.
No more rain of bodies, I thought.
Now, I work cleaning warehouses in Jersey and itís not the same.
All import and export stuff for companies owned by foreigners anyone of who might be a terrorist for all I know.
Iím always expected the terrorists to come back, sneaking under my nose with their dirty bomb, turning us all into glow worms instead of people.
Thatís why Iím carrying a gun.
I want to be ready the next time.
Thatís why I know the guy I kill Ė whoever it is Ė has to die.
I donít want to see another rain of people.