The Day I Missed the Turn
How often do you wash your hair, drive your car,
go to work? Is there a set methodology for this?
The study known as 'Ethnomethodology' examines
this phenomena, more widely known as 'Routine'.
Routine is popularly understood as a pattern,
a mundane occurence, often restricting the life
of an individual. Thus, the question arises...
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Why does one follow a 'Routine'?
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Peering down from the ledge in intellectual accord,
A passage brought into memory, his mind adored.
The article written in the New York Times mere,
Days, weeks, months ago? An odd thought to have here...
That is, fear is but an instant amidst the flames and panic,
It consumes all... Caucasian, African... Hispanic.
Contemplating these notions is difficult in the commotion,
In a sense of futility his hands waver in erractic motion.
Pure emotion streams from his smoke ridden eyes,
Each scream he hears, melancholy, as they near demise.
Clenched fists tear at the ash laced floor,
His arms fall disgraced upon an unhinged door.
Sweeping his hands along the splintered walls,
Until light seeps in, through one of the office stalls.
Hobbling towards it, his legs have fallen lame,
Hope calls out to him, screaming, calling his name.
A woman, with a look of confused disgust,
Clutching his 'FedEx' badge, Yet he lacks trust.
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Shuffling further, her wails grow louder until...
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Staring in introspective awe at the two behemoths,
Peering up through clenched eyes at the azimuth.
'The arc is beautifully visible above the two buildings'
He whispered to himself, encouraging his intellectual branchings.
Most mornings he looked up past the colourful shop awnings,
In lonely appreciation of the accomplishments of God's offspring.
Highly gifted in terms of intellect, yet he is humble,
Not seeking a wonderful career, merely hopeful.
Caught up in an all consuming routine, that he is aware of,
Thus, today, he makes the decision, to change for love.
Not the conventional love, he is still young, not ready for that,
He refers to a change in his day, live off the tip of the bat.
Walking into the sliding doors the L.E.D screen reads,
Oh-Nine-Eleven-Oh-One, the red lettering bleeds.
Smiling pleasantly, using what money he has to see,
Using what time he has, what life he has, to simply be.
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Proud
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Passing the desk, strolling calmly towards the elevator,
The majestic entry glares 'World Trade Center'.
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Fluttering calmly downwards, seeing his reflection,
In distorted glass through light deflection..
He can almost see where he once stood in awe each morning,
Each colourful awning, witness of a new era's dawning.
The light eclipses as the smoke chases him,
Grim fires ignite, the light grows increasingly dim.
Curling in the wisps of air, why did he miss his turn?
Caught by the flames his lifeforce begins to burn.
Too late to learn, his ashes scatter upon the tainted girth,
An unknown victim taken by the day that shook the earth.
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R.I.P.
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