Guest poem sent in by a contributor who wishes to remain anonymous
(Poem #1929) September Twelfth, 2001
Two caught on film who hurtle from the eighty-second floor, choosing between a fireball and to jump holding hands, aren't us. I wake beside you, stretch, scratch, taste the air, the incredible joy of coffee and the morning light. Alive we open eyelids on our pitiful share of time, we bubbles rising and bursting in a boiling pot.
Kennedy's poem is featured in a volume, "Good Poems for Hard Times" selected and introduced by Garrison Keillor. Without being trite, dramatic, verbose or clever, the twelve lines (and especially the "aren't us" capture the essence of being spared, and the thoughts that spin through the mind each time another image of disaster is broadcast on a billion TV screens: What did they feel? It wasn't me! What would I have felt? Why am I still here? More coffee? [Links] Academy of American Poets page on X. J. Kennedy: http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/634 Wikipedia entry: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/X._J._Kennedy