the wobbly table

the waiter
with furrowed brow,
sweating,
short of help,
mixes up the orders,
brings you
fish when you wanted
something
else.
the drinks are
not cold,
the salads
weak and limp
from sitting
in the window.
the bread could
hammer nails, but
so what.
the sun is shining
and there is nowhere
else you'd rather be
then with her.
her long leg
tapping yours
beneath
the wobbly table.