Blue Afternoon In Bethnal Green

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.

These boys did not know good shoes,
how to slice garlic,
or brew coffee

Why was he there?

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 Ceaser the Geezer!

Time to make that call to Luca.