The Least Of These

they were next to me
on the ledge
arguing about no small point
95 floors above Manhattan

‘we have got to jump! do
you want to burn? come,
hold my hand!’

‘i, i ... i can’t do it!’

‘yes, you can!’

‘oh, God! oh, God! i can’t! i can’t! Please!’

another explosion,
a rumble
a swaying between here and there

‘He’s with us! we’ve got no choice!’

‘no, no, ok. ok. i can do it. ok, ok.'

'on three!'

'i can do it. oh, God! oh, God!’

‘good! ready? take my hand! look at me!
on three!
one! two! three!’

‘no, wait! no! God!'

but there is no waiting. one hand
leads another
to the very center of the
earth; the touch of comfort
in a moment of grief.
who but I was witness
to this moment?

what is known of
the struggle here above the world
that none shall witness,
though cameras probe
through fire and brimstone
as I--
with the cries of so many dust-choked voices
coming from everywhere--
reach for another reluctant hand?

know
that I shall indeed
sign a sworn statement,
in blood if I must
that I am witness
to all unknown horrors

and that I
was with them
in the speedy descent

even the sparrow
falls
with me

while cameras roll
straining to see
what happens
when

©Bill Gnade 2001/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.

[this simple poem is related to an essay at Contratimes]