Patch of Green

I saw her sitting alone At a corner table Of a poorly lit inn Her blouse pink The color of Sweet smelling roses She had no clue Who else was in the Tavern and did not care She was reading From what looked like a diary Occasionally taking notes Infrequently sipping From a half empty glass Of sallow wine Her hair was colored Gold as shiny as King Tut’s venerated chair She looked like a model Unsuspectingly posing For a photo shoot With her cheek bones Placed high in her face Her eyes made of jade When I looked at her From the far side of the room A butterfly entered the locale And softly settled On the rim of my wineglass Levitating my heart On occasion she would Posture a smile more Captivating than a Mona Lisa I stood up slowly My feet growing colder As I approached her Hello, I said To myself as I Haughtily fought My chi and feigned Indifference as I soberly Lost course and Spun toward the exit Leaving my rose behind And keeping it my secret Nobody noticed As I solemnly walked past The prophet’s scrawls On the walls and Made a point to step On each crack in the sidewalk