Having finished the Blue-plate Special
And reached the coffee stage,
Stirring her cup she sat,
A somewhat shapeless figure
Of indeterminate age
In an undistinguished hat.
When she lifted her eyes it was plain
That our globular furore,
Our international rout
Of sin and apparatus
And dying men galore,
Was not being bothered about.
Which of the seven heavens
Was responsible her smile
Wouldn’t be sure but attested
That, whoever it was, a god
Worth kneeling-to for a while
Had tabernacled and rested.
July 1947
by Trevor Laurence Jockims
It was after our third year in New York that my wife and I realized it was time to move. [...]
by Adrian Dannatt
Something about a balcony reassured apartment owners
by Thomas R. Pryor
The author recalls nascent sexuality in a Catholic school, complete with choir singing and overtones of masochism
by Thomas Beller
There are other media personalities in the building. One of them is a woman who once played a journalist on TV.
by Carl Schinasi
In the mid ‘70s I, a lifelong New Yorker, eagerly departed the crazy hustle and bustle of New York City [...]
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