Give me your tired, your poor,

your huddled masses…

the centre of a sentence and sonnet of hope

that I memorised from childhood

and in which I vowed to witness

with my own eyes

when I finally

plucked up the courage to ask the lady to dance

with me, an immigrant

who wasn’t tired, was not poor,

had nobody to huddle with, but who

yearned to break free…New Colossus

on a distant shore, how, I hope,

you now weep angel as your promise