It was the summer of the shark attacks,
the search for Chandra Levy and the lethal

injection of Timothy McVeigh. You could be
thinking of hospital pictures of bandaged

stumps or a scene from the movies
where a clean cut kid cuffed

and chained is led to the execution
chamber. You could be wondering

about his last meal, how all-American
a cheeseburger and chocolate chip

mint ice cream. You could be thinking of that
god awful scene that looked more like Israel

than Oklahoma where sprinting rescuers clutched
infants, stout little legs edged

in bloody booties. You could be
sizing up Gary Condit whether he blinked

a lot with a microphone shoved in his face.
You could be wondering whether a day

at the beach was even worth it or getting involved
with a congressman or jogging

at Rock Creek Park. You could be welcoming
the fresh routine, kids heading out with new

backpacks and nerves. You could be picking up
your dry cleaning on your way to work

or stopping for a latte just before hitting
the elevators. You could be in early

to impress the boss, the conference
room ready, your laptop fired up, drumming

your fingers on the marble table or nervously
picking the lint off your suit. You could be

gazing out the window from the 89th floor
to lower Manhattan rooftops and the Hudson

River ferries that remind you of the night
before when you drew a bath

for your two-year-old and his toy
armada, and just for a second

longer you could be
feeling on top of the world.