The Immigrant
No, my papers are not in order. I have no right to be here. I was born in another country far beyond these borders. I am not a citizen. I cannot vote for change. I am a refugee from a land I’ve never left. A transient interloper politely asked to please move on. A shadowy figure on the edge of the scene who makes everyone nervous. I have been evicted, deported, delivered to lowest bidders. I have no right, under auspices of the language of law, to question my strictly defined disposition. My freedoms are restricted. My days consist of making the rounds on my P.O. boxes in various post offices to see if, for once, I have received any mail informing me of a positive change in my legal status. One day there was a certified letter. It was a summons but the name on the form was someone else’s. It was starting to happen. Even this inner sanctum of private delusion was occupied by aliens.
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