Legacy - quick poem

I had some thoughts pop into my head
the other day

outside a Starbucks in New Jersey,

and needed a place to
jot them all down.

Laptop-less, I found a stack of prepaid postcards in the door of my car,

leftovers from a summer of
political rantings.

Over a small “tall” iced coffee with almond milk

I wrote,

it occurring to me

disheartened, Now, I can put a value to
my words:

Thirty-five cents,

pen to paper.

Today, I spent the day with a firefighter who rushed the

burning buildings on 

9/11

the scars on his neck, nothing compared to

his buddies' who
fell.

Hasn’t slept a solid night in

seventeen

years.

What price, these things we carry 

(and, worse,

the things
we do 

not?)

What kind of legacy is an unread book

on some 

library shelf?

- gae