What I did eighteen years back
was I ran like a chicken
with its head cut off
looking for something to do.

There was nothing to do.

There was nothing for me to do that day
but absorb the enormity.
I tried to place myself in the event
look for a location that could fit me in
but it made no sense
and I made no sense in it
and I still don’t.

I can’t say anything
about where I was
or what I did
because nothing I did or was
that day

It was all about others
and their losses
and their actions.
Though in my city
it wasn’t my story
eighteen years back
when all those stories fell.

About Jonathan Berger

I used to write quite a bit more.
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