When will the surface still?
When will the fire die,
When will we scrape the wound clean,
When will things be the same again?
The last one is done for you. Ask
the mothers and fathers, ask
the widows, sit
on the chintz sofa, touch
the son under glass, see
the faded picture look
back from years,
wonder if,
wonder when,
wonder why.
See it written, not large,
but small over and over and over,
One Size Fits All.
When we complete
a dark circle, kill
to stop the killing
(assume we succeed),
those who wave giddy
little plastic flags of
welcome home
will be those who
have someone
to come home to.
written in 2001, days after 9/11, and not edited since.
poetrytech 
I enjoyed reading your post.