Thursday, March 19, 2026: Fin Hall's "Coney Island Avenue Cobbler" and "Lou Reed's Breakfast"

Fin Hall, International Beat Poet Laureate (2024-2025) is from New Pitsligo, in North East Scotland. Hall a multi-published poet, filmmaker, producer, editor, curator, publisher, and performance poet. He has published over 700 people in his anthologies.  

Coney Island Avenue Cobbler

Surf Avenue onwards to Brighton Beach

After the compulsory dogs at Nathan’s

Lipstick, roller coaster smear

Remembering that you said you never realised the roller coaster actually went up and down. 

Borsch for lunch, with Russian family diners,

Gifts for the head of he table 

Kiss on cheek, mafia style,

Just off the boardwalk

Overhead like the French Connection

The rattle, rattle of the trains 

Standing halfway across the road 

Just watching. 

Listening. 

Old guys in doorways,

Looking like they have been there and seen it all

Sidewalk smiling 

Busy and bustling 

Not far from the Vostochny Bazaar 

Another side street FedEx delivery

Where the elderly key ring collector

Heels and soles 

Replaced, renewed, revitalised 

Ready for another walk back to our meeting point 

on Mermaid Avenue, 

Before driving back to the city. 

Lou Reed’s Breakfast 

 

West village,

Near Abingdon Square,

You know,

Where Phil sells his pottery,

Well, he didn’t then,

As this was some time ago.

But he does now.

Saturdays.

When he’s not doing tours.

Walking tours.

 

Bar owned by Jason

Irish guy.

Didn’t know how to make tea,

Or was it coffee.

Sometime around the east coast power out,

I know, I was there, 6am.

Free to those walking downtown to work.

He couldn’t go home.

But this was not that day.

 

Lou comes in

Breakfast time takes a seat.

Young girl. Waitressing.

Takes his order.

This is the same place Rod Stewart came to,

Not then.

Another time. Before

When it was called by another name.

Eggs.

Lou wanted eggs.

Near the park where Tony Soprano took his kids to play.

The actor. Not the gangster.

The gangster lived in New Jersey.

 

 

Fried, poached, scrambled.

Maybe,

Something like that.

All on one plate.

Probably a coffee too.

Not in the plate.

Obviously.

“Oh, one more thing miss,

make sure they aren’t touching each other,”

 

Stopping, putting her pencil away.

Not today she thought.

“I don’t think this place is right for you, “

She said.

“And your definitely not right for this place,”

 

She turned away.

Turned him out.

Back onto the sidewalk.

To find somewhere else to get breakfast.

Maybe at the Bus Stop,

Where Carmela Soprano was known to go

The actress, not the gangster’s wife.

She lived in New Jersey.

 

Her boss, the waitress I’m talking about,

The young Irish guy,

Who didn’t know how to make coffee,

Or was it tea?

Didn’t mind.

Agreed with her.

I didn’t know her.

I knew him though.

Helped him give free teas and coffees to the power out walkers.

 

The day after we didn’t see Pirates of The Caribbean.

© Fin Hall