Panera, 7 A.M.

The sky still goes from pitch to pale,
and the gibbous moon now wanes in the west.
Coffee stains even the mug if it sits too long,
and cold water beads on the glass bottle.
Austere faces stare off and away
as they wait for breakfast with their friends.
Traffic glides north and south alike
between lights that keep east from west.
The neon sign at the store front grows
brighter while the world turns.
Planes and trucks are on their way,
and all have woken to wind their watches.
Fallen behind the tree and tucked beyond
the tower, the single moon still beckons.