The day of the first WTC attack,
I stood with my infant son, watching
the chaos at the maw of the
cavernous wreckage, and the stunned, the staggering,
wrest courage from the debris around them.
Smoke, ash, and a rancid chemical stench
floated across West St., drifting effortlessly toward
the Hudson, toward us both, settling, without
irony, at the foot of Lady Liberty,
anointing my new son’s brow with sorrow.
(First published by Skyfreight Publishing House, June 3, 2026)
Rob S. Friedman 