The lunch crowd is unhappy
save for a privileged few;
the breakfast crowd
knows what a waste of time it is
to wish things otherwise,
so they think of their daughter in Spokane,
the bloom of old garden roses along the fence,
and the dog that waits at home
for the sound of their footsteps. . .
the lunch crowd swallows all the air 
in the room searching for time,
but time just gives them 
a backward glance as she bounds
through the door.

The Japanese maples ringing the clearing
weep in the late afternoon rain;
the bottle of sake stored in the pantry
springs a sympathetic leak.