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 Thomas R. Pryor
Recalling a German WWII veteran who would play with his Iron Cross when not giving crewcuts at his Yorkville barbershop
by Thomas Beller
Thomas Beller spends an afternoon in the man chair of a Calypso store on the Upper East Side.
by Thomas Beller
Alex often used the city's semipublic property for his own private use.
by Mr. Murphy
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by Mr. Murphy
Brian drops out of college to become a millionaire stock broker, but fills in as a doorman in the meantime.
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