Turn off the torch;
douse the light to the storm and,
those adrift.
Tear down her raised arm,
a beacon no more,
just a statue off-shore,
no more “world-wide welcome,”
no more “golden door.”
Raze her down,
this “MOTHER OF EXILES,”*
her job, gone,
laid-off, dismissed, downsized.
“The homeless,”
those “yearning to breathe free”
and “tempest-tost,”
no longer welcome here.
Send her off;
we don’t deserve her anymore.
Prop her up
on some worthy distant shore.
“Your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses,”
don’t interest those
in the priveledged class.
© L. Rose (3/13/17)
Poet's Corner 