We thought that they were gone
we rarely saw them on our screens
those everyday Americans
with workaday routines，
and the heroes standing1 ready
not glamorous2 enough
on days without a tragedy，
we clickedand turned them off.
We only saw the cynics
the dropouts， show-offs， snobs
the right- and left- wing critics：
we saw that they were us.
But with the wounds of Tuesday
when the smoke began to clear，
we rubbed away our stony3 gaze
and watched them reappear：
the waitress in the tower，
the broker4 reading mail，
a pair of window washers，
filling up a final pail，
the husband's last I love you
from the last seat of a plane，
the tourist taking in a view
no one would see again，
the fireman， his eyes ablaze5
as he climbed the swaying stairs
he knew someone might still be saved.
We wondered who it was.
We glimpsed them through the rubble6：
the ones who lost their lives，
the heroes' double burials，
the ones now left behind，
the ones who rolled a sleeve up，
the ones in scrubs and masks，
the ones who lifted buckets
filled with stone and grief and ash：
some spoke7 a different language
still no one missed a phrase；
the soot8 had softened9 every face
of every shade and age
the greatest generation ？
we wondered where they'd gone
they hadn't left directions
how to find our nation-home：
for thirty years we saw few signs，
but now in swirls10 of dust，
they were alivethey had survived
we saw that they were us.
