Muse

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
creased sixty-seven times—
origami goat

Published in Simply Haiku, 2007, vol 5 no 2