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