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 Mickey Z.
A look back at Gimbel's department store, where the price of being the youngest, most attractive male employee was courage.
by Mr. Murphy
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by Thomas R. Pryor
Together, Rory, 7, and I, 9, zoomed up 86th Street to Woolworth’s 5 & 10 for our “start the weekend” [...]
by Martine Byer
Luciana tries to play matchmaker at the office of a dermatologist specializing in the eye--new meaning for the term *blind date*
by Linda Morel
A flood, a bitter supper, and a family held captive for the night...
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