I Don't Think She's About To Go Into Eulogies Poem by Mark Heathcote

It's puzzling seeing her in a hotel lobby.
Is she our very own Mrs. Robinson, played
by Anne Bancroft frustratingly, waiting at
the entrance for Benjamin Braddock's return?
A sophisticated gal now on a beige PVC sofa
with a glam rock 'n roll French cigarette,
so very 70s stylish and genuinely elegant.
But what's with her mood? Is she peeved
with her missing debonair date; is he late?
A picture is worth a thousand words.
A picture tells a thousand stories, they say.
Pardon the pun, but she's like some
gangster's moll and as criminal conspirators go
Where is the smoking gun? Her demeanour
is stereotypical of the time. It's kind-of-clear
Her exasperation is wearing precariously thin.
I don't think she's about to go into eulogies
when he finally does make it in.
It'll be more a case of who did him in.
And a coroners uncaring salutary amen.