The glasses in this restaurant
are spotted with finger-oil
and when held up to the sun,
you can see a misty cloud trapped within them,
just barely holding back the intoxicating light.

The papers in this restaurant-  a collection of unpaid bills and torn menus, are painted with the sweat of the workers, wilted by the heat, and wait to be thrown to the fire.
When held up to the sun,
you can see each splatter of grease and each drizzle of spit together as Picasso's inspiration,
unyielding to the light, whispering yes to each piercing ray.

The people in this restaurant
are spotted with needle-ink
and when held up to the sun,
you can almost see a nest of organs through their papery skin,
which invite the light to seep, seep in.

But the glasses, and the papers, and the people stay, planted on the table, or the swivel chairs, or the rotten floor.  The light waits outside.