Waiting for her in the usual bar <br />He finds she's late again. <br />Impatience frets at him, <br />But not the fearful, half-sweet pain he knew <br />So long ago. <br /> <br />That cherished perturbation is replaced <br />By styptic irritation <br />And, under that, a cold <br />Dark current of dejection moves <br />That this is so. <br /> <br />There was a time when all her failings were <br />Delights he marvelled at: <br />It seemed her clumsiness, <br />Forgetfulness and wild non-sequiturs <br />Could never grow <br /> <br />Wearisome, nor would he ever tire <br />Of doting on those small <br />Blemishes that proved <br />Her beauty as the blackbird's gloss affirms <br />The bridal snow. <br /> <br />The clock above the bar records her theft <br />Of time he cannot spare; <br />Then suddenly she's here. <br />He stands to welcome and accuse her with <br />A grey 'Hello'. <br /> <br />And sees, for one sly instant, in her eyes <br />His own aggrieved dislike <br />Wince back at him before <br />Her smile draws blinds. 'Sorry I'm late,' she says. <br />'Where shall we go?' <br /> <br /> <br />Submitted by Andrew Mayers<br /><br />Vernon Scannell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/where-shall-we-go/
