wait in line
in front of Katz's deli.
we're hungry.
we're
cold.
we're the tired
and weary,
we're the people
that the statue
of Liberty
tells us who we are,
carved in stone.
we want our hot pastrami
on rye,
three pounds
stacked high,
a pickle on the side.
we have our
ticket in hand,
as we brush the New York
snow
from our eyes.
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