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
is no longer good to me
but look at that lady
She still stands lifting that lamp
as though beside some golden door
it makes you wonder
      what they were thinking
and here we sit,
in the safety of a shop
      among the postcards
            and paperweights…

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