Holiday jingles jangle faintly
behind the soup of conversation.
Occasional laughs, clacking dishes,
the sizzle of eggs hitting the heated grill.
It's as if a cosmic wind
swirls in, group after group,
toward the front counter, passed the coffee,
to settle them each at a table,
then a little later, up and on to their respective places,
school, work, the air port, to some other destination.
Meanwhile, the wind passes me by,
forgets to tug me toward destiny,
forgets I want to fly.
Instead, I pick myself up
and walk myself outside.