by Joan Murray

    We thought that they were gone——

    we rarely saw them on our screens——

    those everyday Americans

    with workaday routines，

    and the heroes standing¹ ready——

    not glamorous² enough——

    on days without a tragedy，

    we clicked——and turned them off.

    We only saw the cynics——

    the dropouts， show-offs， snobs——

    the right- and left- wing critics：

    we saw that they were us.

    But with the wounds of Tuesday

    when the smoke began to clear，

    we rubbed away our stony³ gaze——

    and watched them reappear：

    the waitress in the tower，

    the broker⁴ reading mail，

    a pair of window washers，

    filling up a final pail，

    the husband's last "I love you"

    from the last seat of a plane，

    the tourist taking in a view

    no one would see again，

    the fireman， his eyes ablaze⁵

    as he climbed the swaying stairs——

    he knew someone might still be saved.

    We wondered who it was.

    We glimpsed them through the rubble⁶：

    the ones who lost their lives，

    the heroes' double  burials，

    the ones now "left behind，"

    the ones who rolled a sleeve up，

    the ones in scrubs and masks，

    the ones who lifted buckets

    filled with stone and grief and ash：

    some spoke⁷ a  different language——

    still no one missed a phrase；

    the soot⁸ had softened⁹ every face

    of every shade and age——

    "the greatest generation" ？——

    we wondered where they'd gone——

    they hadn't left directions

    how to find our nation-home：

    for thirty years we saw few signs，

    but now in swirls¹⁰ of dust，

    they were alive——they had survived——

    we saw that they were us.

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