Everyone else is blogging John M. Ford's brilliant poem about Sept. 11th, 110 stories, but I've never been one to run with the crowd here, so I'll instead blog Christine Quinones's work on the more quotidian woes of contemporary New York:

Sonnet: A Valediction, Against Flushing

The fundamental errors in the field,
The bats as cold as February snow,
The pitching inconsistent and too slow --
Have reaped a last-place standing as their yield.
A fate of autumn off is all but sealed,
So they go out and lose eight in a row.
The fans who still have hope believe, but know
How hearts with bitterness become congealed.

Come on, Mets! You make Tampa Bay look good!
You're living proof a pennant can't be bought.
Bud, why contract the Twins or Montreal?
Amazin'. They're professionals -- they should
Survive. Break up the Mets! They're all for naught.
It's over, guys. Let's go. Enjoy the fall.

Christine, you have the soul of a Red Sox fan. (They're ruinin' my summah! Again!)