The exterior,
in all its magnificence,
displays an
impressive menu
in a shining crystal case.
It boasts the most
exquisite chefs
of tall white hats
and slick thin mustaches.
The garden entrance
is overflowing with
the brightest flora
of sweetest smells
arranged in colors
most appealing.

The doormat
is chewed and mangled,
tattered thin as if
shaved away by the
teeth of crusted sand paper.
Centuries of
generations
have passed through
this large, welcoming
gate.
The greeting upon
its face
is damaged from ancient age.
It once invited
all with a
“hello!”
but the “o” has
worn away.

The interior
lacks the heavy
perfume of flowers.
Its glory is no more.
The heat of the kitchen
furnace is
overwhelming
as black oil drips
down yellow stained walls.
Greasy grub is the only
entrée.
Dessert does not
exist.