A green restaurant, any time, really.

Cigarettes on the ground outside,

Sticky floors and fuzzy black mats.

Customers scattered like seeds,

Two clumped at the bar. 

Squeaking seats, a shared Shirley Temple.

Salads and sandwiches drifting from

Table to table and conversation wafting.

A few smiles. Suddenly,

She laughs, and 

It’s like the moment when the

Sun falls behind a cloud, there’s 

A bit of emerald something in her teeth

And it’s as wonderful as biscuits

Fresh out the oven and 

Apple butter, extraordinary.

A dog trots by, peering fog catches 

A glimpse through the window 

Of the dull pink glows of 

Two people suddenly

Becoming happy.