UNDER THE GREAT CLOCK

 

At the Café underneath the great clock,

He sat waiting there suited and booted

Perched on the edge of his seat, restless

As he watched the great clock hands moving

Slowly, as they ticked off the minutes

His palms sweated and his heart pounded

As he waited beneath the great clock face

“What am I doing?” He asked himself

“A blind date! what was I thinking, madness”

He was too old for blind dates, far too old

Why did he agree, what would they talk about?

He wasn’t young, he wasn’t cool, he was

More Wilson Philips than Wilson Picket

But there she was, not too young, and lovely

His mouth was dry and he felt a bit faint

“I was terribly nervous about tonight”

She said putting him straight at his ease

As she slipped off her coat effortlessly

With natural elegance and easy grace.

As he took off his own coat, he hit his arm

On the wall, bumped into a woman,

And knocked over a cruet, she laughed

At his discomfiture, but not mockingly      

And sympathetically she bade him sit