Poem 2: Lies


This is the land of milk and

The city glitters all the way
across the New York Bay,each urban island
like a spillover of gold
walking on water.

Give me your tired, your poor

Everyday in this country
is a new miracle
in which you climb up your very own
with long hours at night, standing guard in some florescence
or dusting an heiress’ armoire
only long enough to
make it.

Your fantasy of the Staten
Island split-level, some brown
lawn, solid schools clean with
teachers and tax money
overtakes the calypso rhythms
and real island sun that
lingers, dancing around the edges
of your dream, still.

This city is a dream, it is your dream
now, where the clink of coins
amassing drowns out all
that you ever lost in the first
place. Every inch of the cloudless sky saying, I lift my lamp
beside the golden door.


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