Friday, September 06, 2019
This branded refugee was delivered to my door this morning. And from your neck of the woods. All I can say to the library-choppers is:
“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”