“Champs Elysées of Broadway” says the awning
of the café where, every Sunday morning,
young lawyers in old jeans ripped at the knees
do crosswords. Polyglot Lebanese
own it: they’ve taken on two more shopfronts
and run their banner down all three at once.
Four years ago, their sign, “Au Petit Beurre”
was so discreet, that, meeting someone there,
I’d tell her the street corner, not the name.
They were in the right place at the right time.
Meanwhile, the poor are trying hard enough.
Outside, on Broadway, people sell their stuff
laid out on blankets, cardboard cartons, towels.
A stout matron with lacquered auburn curls
circles the viridian throw rug
and painted plaster San Martin to hug
a thinner, darker woman, who hugs her
back volubly in Spanish—a neighbor,