Today

This morning, I was awakened by my clock-radio broadcasting the New York
City commemoration of the tragedy that occurred here 6 years
ago at that exact moment. It felt weird to come to work on such a solemn
day, when just a week ago we had Monday off for Labor Day, a holiday
which very few of us can even explain, but rather spend at the beach
and/or barbecuing.

Perhaps in thirty years or so, we will have a day off to reflect. In
the meantime, here is a poem I like that sort of captures some essence:


Riding the Elevator Into the Sky
By Anne Sexton (1975)


As the fireman said:
Don't book a room over the fifth floor
in any hotel in New York.
They have ladders that will reach further
but no one will climb them.
As the New York Times said:
The elevator always seeks out
the floor of the fire
and automatically opens
and won't shut.
These are the warnings
that you must forget
if you're climbing out of yourself.
If you're going to smash into the sky.


Many times I've gone past
the fifth floor,
cranking upward,
but only once
have I gone all the way up.
Sixtieth floor:
small plants and swans bending
into their grave.
Floor two hundred:
mountains with the patience of a cat,
silence wearing its sneakers.
Floor five hundred:
messages and letters centuries old,
birds to drink,
a kitchen of clouds.
Floor six thousand:
the stars,
skeletons on fire,
their arms singing.
And a key,
a very large key,
that opens something -
some useful door -
up there.
somewhere -
up there.