Elizabeth drifts down a garden path
as a charlatan yaps at her heels:
How many windows in Lady Catherine's house?
I went to a high school with more.
It is such a comfort to think
of a sin for every window,
starting small, with a rock for the library,
then growing with one's ambition.
Investment bankers can jump, you know,
when a poet says, "How high?"
The birds are on fire,
the birds were on fire
in a lens's practical eye,
And here of a Tuesday morning
my love and I would die -
At the ledge we stood, held hands, and pledged
to forget about England for good -
The place is a playground now, no windows.
Wind, oh I knew you would.

Anna Bendiksen

Anna Bendiksen sins by worrying; her husband almost went to the Trade Center on September 11th, 2001.

If you've any comments on this poem,
Anna Bendiksen would be pleased to hear from you.