An Immigrants Tale
We arrived like windblown dirt,
the steamer vomited us out
then wallowed into a smug stillness.
We migrants stood
to be led somewhere, anywhere
slowly we disembarked, disorganized
and straggling,
lingering on the dock for leadership,
for welcoming hands,
we were examined, passed through check points,
our crumpled papers stamped
with a smudged and unreadable seal.
Lady liberty with her torch seemed
as green now as our long seasick hopes.
Cops glared at us
as if we were rotting fish,
a bad catch.
We held hands; heads bowed
ploughed through to the teaming city.
The high windows, narrow passageways,
the overhanging washing
all were threads
we understood through alien eyes.
Ghettos are the same everywhere.
The people were almost as poor as us,
they had little to share
so we found holes in the walls
scrabbled and scrimped
the way mice do in an empty barn.
Little by little we grew wealthy
others fell sick and died,
a few married well.
Some went to the notorious bad
became powerful enough to prey
on the weak - even their own.
Sinners prospered
just as they did in the old world,
nothing original in that,
we had witnessed it all before.
Now we survive, thrive,
lead lives of a spirited and rowdy grace,
stare cops in the face, and wink
as if we owned them.
Generally speaking we deplore
all exiles from foreign lands,
we’re comfortable here
and have no room for newcomers,
those that are penniless and brazenly
land at our very door.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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