The Dining Room at Dusk

At the doorway the buffet tables stretch out like wings, weighty with dishes of meat bits.
The others are seated in pods under the yellow lights.
The sky outside is singing in pinks and oranges.
The trees hum along, light green, soft, glowing.
There is already no empty seat next to you.
The staff wear bowties and say sir and carry bright orange glasses of Fanta which here in the Philippines is called "Royal".
The birds ride the updrafts.
On the basketball court the Japanese are dancing in a staggered formation. They are below a streetlamp, their thin arms catch the light as they jump, windmill, flick. I watch them from the tinted glass of the window.
I was expecting, falsely it seems, to find young kids in love.
But there is something else, something better.
There are coloured paper flags on a plastic string.
There are the eyes, sparkling during kiitos.
There is you, over there, laughing as you slurp your soup.
There is tomorrow.
There is tomorrow.