In the Twin Towers

sequestered from the immediate below

an elderly couple

soaked in their own tepid sweat

from the opressive breath of project heat

for a moment tried to remember

the vague idea of themselves

that propelled them

thirty years ago.

He can hear from the living room

that antique bell chime--

he has turned into a herniated butler.

She rings again...

how delicate...how genteel.

He watches the gnarled hands

the liver spots--

musing how her ring held on

to the bony corpse of her finger.

"I have nothing to say to you." she said.

As if it was necessary,

her skin as bloodless...lifeless,

as the diluted tea she drinks.

He puts his arms around her,

how strange this passions she arouses in him,

how he missed her cries

her bones snapping in such an easy sequence

the heat rising furiously up the vents

it would soon be unbearable.

Published in  PLAZM  magazine  (10)