Sunday's coffee

Across from the World Trade Center,
I sit in a Starbucks
Sipping an iced coffee
As I look across flat hazy space
To the cross

People hustle in and out of
Century 21 clothing store
Across the street
People take pictures in front of the names
It's 93 degrees, but a dry heat like San Diego
Sweating men drag crates of bottles across the street
yelling, "cold water, one dollar."
I had wandered from the Staten Island Ferry
I rode across alone,
looked at the Statue of Liberty as I went.
When I arrived at the shores of Staten Island,
nothing was there
I turned around and went home.

At the Museum of the American Indian which colonized
an old American building
I stared at George Catlin's portraits of the Plains Indians
He had discovered on his travels, before they disappeared.
I traveled now on empty streets
but my stomach was full
of tarragon chicken salad sandwich with dried cranberries

The N R beckoned.
My iPod played appropriate music, as if someone had chosen it for the occasion.
My cell phone was almost out of batteries.