Front Desk, 9/11
The catalogue lies open
to Chair 47B,
its diagram promising lumbar certainty
in a world that has just
crumbled in on itself.
The sales phone blinks red,
a small emergency
that no longer knows its scale.
Someone wants a quote
on bulk swivel units
while the television
in the break room
shows a skyline
rewriting its own grammar.
The mob ledger on the counter
still smells of toner and sweat,
columns of numbers
trying to impersonate order.
But every digit trembles now,
as if the ink remembers
that bodies are not inventory.
A dust‑fleck floats
through the fluorescent light,
slow as a thought
trying to decide
whether it still belongs
to the category “ordinary.”
The executive’s badge
reflects the screen —
a tiny mirrored tower
falling again and again
in the plastic sheen
of corporate identification.
Outside, a forklift beeps,
insisting on its ritual,
moving pallets of chairs
designed for the posture
of people who believed
tomorrow was a stable noun.
And in the pause
between two news anchors
searching for language
that no longer exists,
the front desk becomes
a threshold without a name —
a place where symbols
forget their jobs
and objects remember
they were never neutral.
And the switchboard’s fireworks
go blank.
.
-
Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 11th, 2026 05:28
- Category: Sociopolitical
- Views: 14
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange, Mutley Ravishes
Offline)
Comments8
A quiet tribute to a dreadful day and rubble that ensued. A somber write my friend in commemoration. Nicely done
Thanks Soren. It took a while but it's finally out there in articulated verse. 🙏🏻🕊️
My pleasure my friend
A poignant write
Thank you, Norman, my friend 🙏🏻🕊️
most welcome
Couldn't endorse more... You have it. Restrained, but a subtle note of the brutal reality. The terrifying nature of that experienced by nine eleven participants; the decision by those with a long life ahead of them forced to make a choice to burn or jump. Firies (firefighters) and others who risked or lost their lives in attempted rescue.
I, however must comment on a different aspect… as above.
It was indeed an overload of the senses. 🙏🏻🕊️
What a powerful piece, my friend. The familiar workplace becomes strange as every routine, object, and expectation loses its meaning. You captured that terrible suspension between the ordinary world and the one that followed. Exceptionally done, Rik. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Good write A.
I think that every body remembers what they were doing that day Rik. I worked in computing in an open plan office normally the telephones were going very frequently, that afternoon there was not one telephone call!
Andy
So that bit about the switchboard going blank was not just my imagination 🙏🏻🕊️
A beautiful tribute, Arqios. And who "benefitted" from this act? And how?
Indeed! 🙏🏻🕊️
Hard to believe it was 25 years ago.
And what those People went through in the Towers? We can't Imagine.
And in the other two incidents.
A good Write.
Thanks Kevin. That office scene was where I was at during that eventuating, halfway across the globe but still affected irreversibly 🙏🏻🕊️
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