Even the Dead Weep

Even the dead weep at a time like this.

All those on the other side, making preparations to welcome such a large group.

Death is going door to door in New York City
walking past doormen,

going up dark stairways, down halls,
taking the train to Long Island and Connecticut
and getting off at little Cheeveresque stations in the suburbs.

Death nears exhaustion, leaning in one more doorway, waiting for the buzzer to be answered,

hesitating, sighing, tired.

She has tears in her eyes as she visits another house,

and another and another.

At night death goes down to the site and sits on the rubble wishing it wasn’t true.

Some of the dogs come and sniff at death, then back up and give her a funny look.

Even death is too tired to be moved.

September 12, 2001