A dimly lit Japanese restaurant. I glance at my watch, think: "must have gotten the time wrong," return to gazing absently at the paintings on the walls. A tiny almond-eyed waitress approaches, looks at the empty chair:
"Friend come soon?"
"Yes, soon," I reply.
A half-hour later, I catch her eye.
"Not coming. Ohhhh … too bad. Want order?"
Yes, some sort of order has been lost and I want it back. Without the steady rhythm of work, I no longer know which day of the week it is.
A thin volume of poetry open, I stuff down noodles and words, pretend that I'm not one to be pitied, but instead admired for being able to live so rich a solitary life.
a scrap of paper
Published in Simply Haiku, 2007, vol 5 no 2