“When will you get here?” I questioned my love.
“I’ll be there by quarter to ten.”
So I bustled around to clean up the place
and planned dinner to be ready by then.
“Are you still coming?” I asked later on,
as I watched the clock, clinging to hope.
“No problem, by noon at the latest” he said,
so I slowed down the cooking to cope.
“Will you be here at all?” I cried in despair
while basting an over-done roast.
“I told you I would; let’s say around four
four-thirty or five, at the most”
“Just pulled into town” he told me at eight,
“And guessed I should give you a call.”
“Why? Your dinner is now with the trash,
You’ve no reason to call here at all.”