All The Saturday night revelers, flooding in from villages, both East and West, Looking for Eden in some nightclub off the Jefferson St L Clearly haven't heard of the woman selling heaven on the side with her home-boiled tamales For five bucks a pop, over on Myrtle-Wyckoff, only two subway stops away, Selling you, if you care to listen, the knowledge that all the divine happiness you seek can be bought for the price of simply leaving your phone at home And letting good, hearty peasant food fill your stomach, and evaporate all future and all past into the divine present, there among the meek and the poor.