It doesn't matter that it's
happened before, it doesn't
help that others have been
here, it shouldn't have been
a surprise, but, still, it's not OK.
The freight train, the howl
of death, the twist of steel,
and the glass – all the glass,
it hurts, and it's not OK.
There is no consolation,
there are no promises
and no amount of money
that heals this pain,
this healing is loss, not gain,
and, no, it's not OK.
Relatives call, friends too,
politicians mention us,
and, no, we're not safe,
and we're not counting our
blessings, and it couldn't
have been worse, and,
yes, pray for us; pray for us
because it's not OK.
We are twisted and torn,
we are soaked through
with tears and sweat
from digging to find
nothing worth saving;
even the memories
have been driven away,
and it's not OK.
And when it's all done,
cleaned up and cleared,
remembered and forgotten,
and the new sits on the
grave of the old, and
landscaping replaces the
laughs of the lost,
it still won't be OK.
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