he sits there   barely breathing
         a light dusting of ash sitting on
     his helmet            his face
 partially covered by a mask
     his eyes glazed over from the
   work he has done        the work he
             still has waiting for him.
 
 sirens echo off the shattered remains
      of the world trade center
 and as the world holds its breath
         a small tear makes a path   down
                his grizzled chin
 and onto hands that have touched
        cold brick   and   cold flesh.
 
      his shift is almost up   for today
 but he knows    sleep is just something
   he used to do    as images of friends
      found in the rubble linger just
 behind eyes that have seen too much
              on this eleventh day 
                        of september.
 
 (c) Trish Shields
 091201