WAGblog

Poem for WTC survivors

MEA CULPA

by Pamela Spiro Wagner

I wasn�t there, I�m sorry.
I would have helped if I could
but I was at home, watching television,
eating a tuna fish sandwich or orange sherbet.
I was answering the phone, opening the mail,
I was still in bed sleeping.
My life is quiet. I stay home mostly.
I solve crossword puzzles, I read,
I play with the cat.
I don�t go out often
though I do sometimes long for company.
I guess you know what that�s like, now,
the hunger that starts deep in your fingertips
penetrates to your bones, how you ache
for the touch of some other human being�
Ah, here I am telling you my troubles
as if they compared to yours.
But you see, that�s what happens
when you haven�t survived such awfulness.
I didn�t feel the weight of calamity on my skin,
I didn�t smell or hear or see anything
but what the cameras packaged
for my little screen.
I wasn�t there. I will *never* understand.
You must accept this: you are alone
in your terrible particular knowledge.
It is yours, a burden
I cannot share.
I�m sorry. I�m sorry.
I wasn�t there.