“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!”

I enter the doors

Far from golden and the lamp’s been broken out

And I whisper to myself,

I hate waiting…

But you know that’s what you are going to have to do…
Because that’s the name of the room
Especially at the free health clinic

Sitting… waiting …Feeling sorry for the huddled masses

Until I remember I am one too.

Those thousand words change definition when you are in the picture

Charity redefines itself to pity from its true meaning of love when you are the recipient

I look around and see everyone reminding me of how broke I am
And how broken I am.

Thinking well it could be worse, but what do you say to someone when it really can’t be any worse.

What do you say to a soul that’s hit rock bottom?

What do you say to the soul of someone who’s hit the free health clinic

What do you say to us retched refuse who’s weak bodies have washed up on to the shore of a waiting room

I’m called a patient
But I don’t live up to my name

Frustrated and angry… but still

Waiting … But with appointments never kept

But I’m used to it because prosperity and wellness have repeatedly stood me up

Good health has never made a single date

So I sit waiting….

Yearning to breathe free

But it seems every tick-tock that the clock utters is 187 syllables long
Murdering my damn nerves singing duets with crying babies

In front of an orchestra of grandmother’s moans and downtrodden men’s coughs on percussion

This stress can’t be good for my condition…  or maybe it’s the cause

My body is weak from running in this vicious cycle

From waiting…..

but i continue to repeat:

“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 clinic door!”