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.