The commotion commoted,
from round the bend,
and the voice did not say,
“this is a test”,
it said,
“get the hell out,
as fast as you can,
if you can!”,
cause you don't want to be
the gingerbread man,
baken up, baken up,
high in the sky,
thirty-four floors up.
But no one knew
where to go.
Into the orange glow
and thick black smoke,
I don't think so.
It is only one step
out the window,
to the street,
but the sidewalk
would be hard on your feet.
Don't know much
about this day,
don't know what to say,
but that it seems to be,
just another Trade Center day,
and it will most likely be,
our last.
Face to face with your own mortality,
is no place anyone wants to be.
