by Charlene Pratt
The air wasn’t saturated with smoke, drinks were
in colorful glassware filled with the taste of sweet,
bitter, dry and sour.
Chairs without iron, or lightly padded, but filled
with spaciousness, comfort of a folder paper in a
number 10 with a window view.
Lights were soft, not a darkened room,
aromas of fine cuisine, service of luxury. Colorful walls
with washable painted menus, changeable like a
piece of clothing. Continuous seats of comfort
surrounded an outer brick layer, with light splashes of
The line of silks, linens, cottons,
colors blending, some bouncing off each other.
Draping bodies always out
the front door with feet in stylish
comfort,. Couples, single, a party of
four, group of eight, reservations
should be made for an hour and half wait,
no matter the time.
Pings of steel drums, violins, long
Strings of a cello rise and fall of
the tempo, increase the inner pace of
eating, conversations with a hidden
quickness…slow, quick, slow.
When it rained never knew when,
if it did no one was ever wet, nor believed of
Florida heat, days, nights, Chicago cold, wind.
No one gets enough, at least once a
month, surrender to yogurt lunch for a
week or so, an easiness of a habit
without pain. Others with papers of
green a weekly scene.
This place I love only opens during
the blue moon at The Blue Moon Café.
Charlene M. Pratt a.k.a. Summer Harp is a self-published author of two poetry books, Notes on Thoughts, Stir-fry Poetry and chick-lit Conversations with Women…thoughts you didn’t want anyone to know you had. She also loves to cook and read cookbooks as well as experiment with different recipes. She is working on writing erotica a romantica series.