Not Stood Up Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

At last she had arrived, hips swinging.
Boobs leading,
heels clicking,
unhurried, rather strolling.
Two hours late,
I, like a girl,
a whimpy one at that,
I had stood there,
pretending very well
to like the neighbourhood.
But not quite blending in.

'Well, piss off, inner man,
your lonely finger of
such righteous indignation,
it just fell off, things happen!
Buses break down,
parents mingle,
handbags lost,
stolen carkeys,
bridges flooded,
blizzards roaming,
stalkers, male,
and those much softer,
obnoxious cops,
what counts is only
she is here.'

'So, tell her so! '.

'It is alright,
I have all day,
no problem, no,
I'll cancel classes,
the funeral of grandpa, too,
the graduation.'

She was not paying good attention,
could be a listener she was not,
but then who is, today, tonight?
Things more important
in this world were dear to her.
She glanced across the busy street,
well, looking, even maybe longing,
some interest of peculiar kind
was occupying her sweet mind.
Her pink-framed mouth then opened briefly,
exposing pearly whites and moist
strawberry tongue, God so delicious.
'Sorry', she said, 'truly I am,
and please believe me, it's not YOU,
something is wrong within myself,
not you, at all, but many fishes
can be retrieved from many seas.
But I'm already very late,
so here's Good-bye, I guess, for now,
but will be seeing you, okay? '

And turned, to leave, then stopped and said
over that lovely shoulder, left,
half-draped by shiny, auburn hair,
those dimples, rosy cheeks and ears,
a dipple, lone but prominent
protruding, straining looking hostile,
'still friends we are, that's understood? '
and crossed to waiting beau, brisk steps.

As far as I remember this,
I never ever liked those pads,
on shoulders, not on girls at all.
Then, whistling. Exit. Pub. Next left.