Miss Liberty drops
her trademark
tablet and torch.

Years spent standing on chains
has ignited an unyielding
pain in her fallen arches.

She kicks off her size 879 sandals
into the Atlantic.
The wake from one capsizes
a gaudy party yacht.

She hurls her weighty seven-spiked crown
toward the flashes
of a mirrored-glass city.

She undoes the clasp on her left shoulder
and lets her green palla and stola fall.

Her bright copper breasts and legs
burn orange in the setting sun.

She curls her Greek toes
over the edge of her pedestal,
head down,
knees flexed,
bending at the waist,
waiting
for a gun to go off.