It is 6:30 a.m. and I am the only
one on the streets of Oklahoma City
(you and I both know where
this is going but such is the nature of curiosity)
I am unsure of what
exactly I should seek -
a great gap, perhaps,
or some cheery new construction,
or the remains of the building,
Hiroshima come home to roost.
I wander. It does not take long.
Oklahoma City is not that large.
A petite modern polis, at best,
and naturally the tachycardiac
visitors' brochures make no mention
of what is undoubtedly
the major new draw.

Bank towers and department stores
throw forth to the sky,
reflecting each other and all
unperturbed.
Where commerce meets outskirt
it is sullen window washer hour
on the streets of Oklahoma City and the very air is a revisionist's dream.

I am anxious with time when the brown sign
appears on a thin street,
pointing the way. In a minute
I enter federal territory
and am swiftly rendered naive.

It was a monument made once
the debris cleared away. The foundation stands
yet with a fence and display.
The photographs catch before, after,
mid-implosion,
ringed by massive heroisms.
I can barely see through from the water and
hangings,

the small souvenirs and remembrances of souls:

the t-shirts and banners of the victims' activities,
the K through 6 art projects set up in sympathy,
bouquet on bouquet from the last anniversary
and all the stuffed animals
from the unified dream of this city of children,
matted by rain,
all of these reading in black felt tip marker
we will never forget
we will not forget

and the adjacent buildings stand gutted,
distended,
and the Catholic church sports a bright vinyl banner:

CHRIST
IS
RISEN
ALLELUIA

and in Denver or somewhere
is a man in a cell
with a hate in his heart
most are blessed to not know.

It is 7:15 a.m. on the lightening streets
of Oklahoma City and I tiptoe now.
I do not walk over sewer grates
or smile at passersby.
I am waiting with the rest of the city and world
for the next
the next
the next
time.