Brooklyn Song
If you trace the tendon of the elevated track, if you trace it back to its birth in Brooklyn, to congregations of felt hats and pigeon-like blurs of men that stain the sidewalk, if you through it run scissors or a tender thought and hit pure bone, do not fret, do not fret, there's a train to Brooklyn.
The sandwich, in wax paper, lay halfway out of the bag and the aroma told me there was more to this than baloney. I picked it up and slid it from its wrapping. It was not any ordinary sandwich where meat is slapped between slices of tasteless white American bread. This bread was dark and thick, baked by an Italian mother in Brooklyn, bread firm enough to hold slices of a rich baloney, layered with slices of tomato, onions and peppers, drizzled with olive oil and charged with a tongue-dazzling relish. - Frank McCourt, Teacher Man