On the day my city burns, I will sift through the ashes,
picking up small shards of glass as the National Guard convoy passes.
I will rise to my feet, and shift my gaze towards the street, and see you standing.
I grew up half an hour north from where Czolgosz shot McKinley.
September 6th, 1901. Two bullets to the belly.
and I am thankful for the mall erected in his name, and the statue (high school).
My great great grandfather worked hauling grain along the river.
Now this city hungers and I have nothing to give her,
save a few kind words, and a rare ocean bird (http://buffalonews.com/2013/10/09/buffalo-bird-watchers-abuzz-over-brown-booby/), and a song like this one.
On the day my city burns, I will stand out on the break water,
watching black smoke fill the air and cover up the slaughter,
and I will call out your name, but my voice won't sound the same,
and they won't hear me.
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