And Sunday mornings were the clink of coffee cups
In the shops that line Broadway
And newsprint staining palms, and joggers dripping bluetooth
and perspiration
Friday afternoons the smell of challah baking
And heavy Brooklyn accents lacing telephone calls and
Black-hatted men hurrying to Maariv
Wednesday mornings smelled like sticky buns, like weeks
pulled apart
At the seams
Like to-do lists that sung melodies of tailors and Zabar's
Thursday afternoons were feet-clunking, tipping, tapping, chuckling
The smell of laundromats and the sticky residue left on the
rim of a mug
Monday evenings were the man who sold his gum for a dollar fifty
And the woman who whistled “Darling Clementine” when they came to purchase their milk
Saturday nights, and bars groaned and moaned when 2:00, 3:00, 4:00 meant pay phones and shattered glass
And again Sunday morning, and radios chuckling out the windows of the coffee shops
That line Broadway