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 Beller
I was bounding down the stairs into the subway, three steps at a time, hoping to make the train.
by Bonnie Ellman
When my mother was diagnosed with cancer in May of 1996, she was sent for treatment at the Hospital for [...]
by Tess Wilkinson-Ryan
The back was filled with vendor carts
by Thomas R. Pryor
In Catholic school, Thomas Pryor came up with a novel way of escaping his classroom: selling religious articles from a cart.
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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