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 Naomi Semeniuk
Anita is a pro superlative mature exercise instructor...
by Mickey Z.
The author encounters a trailblazing tennis luminary while working at the Vertical Club.
by Linda Morel
A Jewish woman must hide her love of aggressively meaningless, festive Christmas trappings. A conflict ensues
by Mr. Murphy
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by Mr. Murphy
Groping for an appropriate way to conduct oneself in the thick of Christmas tips season
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