The buffet calls as the lift doors open,
A quiet shush and then the clink of plates
The smell of bacon pulling like a rope
That guides us perfectly
To the racks of eggs and sausages,
Beans and mushrooms, buttery toast
And pancakes, croissants, little pots of jam.
We sometimes go to places just for this,
The joy of breakfast loaded high
On warmed up plates in little booths,
Surrounded by excited families, about to hit the beach
And tired executives tapping at their laptop keys,
Waitresses weaving through the busy tables,
Smiling wryly as we leave.