To the Towers Themselves
Anonymous

They were never the favorites,
Not the Carmen Miranda Chrysler
Nor Rockefeller’s magic boxes
Nor the Empire, which I think would have killed us all if she fell.
They were the two young dumb guys,
Beer drinking
Downtown MBA’s
Swaggering across the skyline,
Not too bright.
Now that they are gone,
They are like young men
Lost at war,
Not having had their life yet,
Not having grown wise and softened with air and time.
They are lost like
Cannon fodder
Like farm boys throughout time
Stunned into death,
Not knowing what hit them
And beloved
By the weeping mothers left behind.