I've lived in this neighborhood
The favorite sidewalk cafes
where locals like to eat,
but I never paid attention to.
The firehouse on this street
On one side there's a parking lot
The other side a laundromat
Across the street's a small boutique
where you might find an antique hat down on the corner,
discount drugstore where life goes on,
but not quite like the way it did before.
At first there was this slender
thread of optimistic hope
The digging went on round the clock
No one slept, but somehow coped
The photos of the missing men
Of the red door where we said
The wind shifted to the north
Stung our eyes, burned our throats
Left a bitter taste upon our tongues
We drank more than we should have
Everyone I know had nightmares
Dreams all filled with dread
Day blurred into night, then day,
then night, then day again.
Missing was the buzzword,
It was the end for young men,
as hell came rolling down.
Though logic was not on our side,
we thought they'd all be fine.
Cause still there was this slender
thread of optimistic hope.
The digging went on round the clock, no one slept,
but somehow caught the photos of the
missing men were posted on the glass of the red
door where we said a prayer whenever we
Believers lit votive candles, laid flowers at the door,
baked cas seroles, and homemade breads
But wished they could do more, and the guys inside were grateful,
but preferred to grieve alone
Though trained to save the lives of others,
they could not save their own.
May be next year the pain won't
be as sharp as it is today.
Though it will never completely go away
And we will talk in terms of
before and after the attack
And wish that more than anything
Reality sliced cleanly through
that slender thread of hope
The digging just went on and on
Some snapped, most of us still cope
The photos of the missing are
