Pathetic poet writes again (with apologies to all with a talent for verse)

The empty chair

Tapping off her ashes, 

wondering if passion’s

ever going outta fashion.

Chews her lip.

Looking cross the table, 

thinks she might be able

to write her modern fable

(dunks a chip).

The empty chair dares 

her to stay unawares

of fellow drinkers’ stares,

as she waits.

Ten-thirty he said he’d meet her 

in the caff with that old heater.

(Thinks: really should be neater.

Hates blind dates.)

The crossword lies completed, 

but her hopes stand - defeated.

Maybe she was too conceited?

Re-reads the ad.

“If you can sit alone just sipping 

cold coffee or idly dipping

into your book, as I'm clipping

from your hair,

you might be the lady for me.
The one I’ll woo for no fee

for all the world to see.

Meet me there.”

Ninety cold minutes gone astray. 

No, he can’t have lost his way.

Guess he wants to screw up her day,

but he won’t.

You needs dates with inept poets 

who’re so bad but just don’t know it?

Last time she’ll sink so low - it’s

time to go.