By Andrew R. Duckworth
Morning clear blue skies that
Tell those below the day is
Bright and young.
Explosion high above is not
The sun, but a storm of metal
Raining shards of hell.
I saw it on TV, in the comfort
Of an 8th grade English class,
Old TV wheeled out on a cart-
A moment the world changed,
Chaos and uncertainty, realizing
No one is really “safe.”
What seems like yesterday,
now decades ago. I’m tired.
Poetry and Essays of Andrew Ryan Duckworth 