September in Madison
by: Lisa Al Amoodi

In traffic, hungry preschooler strapped in,
driving for the first time in America
because angry men killed people with bare hands,
then with huge planes, until secretaries
and brokers fell like leaves.
The brave firefighters my son can become if he drinks his milk
disappeared in seconds. Now I'm on a street
with these picaresque gold and red maples
touching fingertips, unbelievable.
Working folk in cars, funneling home through town,
students with their dumpy apartments and luxurious walks around us
are any fall, but every house is different. Flags new or faded
draped off porches, stickered on cars tell me
this is the movie, not the other.
They wrote about ash before, but this is
thick and infused with our own
and what we need to know is not a poem.