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
