Just a week in Brooklyn

He loped around Bethnal Green
the fragrance of Scorsese's New York
still clinging to his overcoat
a fading comfort
like Frank Sinatra

the gangsters here had no style
just ill fitting Nike and bad teeth
they did not know good shoes
how to slice garlic
or brew coffee

why was he here
on this godless street
in the pouring rain

what had that damm broad
made him do
after only a week
in Brooklyn

she had eyes
this limey

and the promise of
morning tea in china cups
afternoon walks along the Thames
and nights wrapped in
velvet thighs

her friends call him a geezer

time to make that call