Bad [Poetry] From My Writing Past #1: Where They Enter
Give me your tired feet, poor feet let me rub them and give me your huddled masses of sweaters I made you wear this morning I know you’re yearning to breathe free of them your feet, like wretched refuse, stink dip them in the waters along the teeming shore and send these rolls of film to your father he’s there, taking photos of the homeless this tempest-tossed umbrella…