Chiming, the clock laughs
At his solidarity
Moving on, as with the room,
Though he stays still.
At five minutes the waiter
Asked if he was ready
A damp palm he’d held up
No, no, a few more.
At ten he resigned to a glass of water
Switched to vodka, straight up
At twenty past that.
After thirty his neck burned
With the eyes of those kept waiting
And at an hour even the single rose
Wilted into the tabletop,
No longer either able to
Excuse the time away.
Five more minutes he promises
But blinking from door to face
The clock suddenly chimes.
So resigned he arises,
slowly,
As if those few seconds are of importance.
At last standing, he sighs and turns
Leaving behind shriveled petals
And wasted time.