Defiant

The sting of being stood up crashes over me like the wake of a wave.
I hear the door open but see only a unknown stranger.
Is it my looks, my manner, the way in which I behave?
Oh I don't worry, or feel hurt, of even anger.
Though not uncommon this occurrence is rare,
And not totally unseen.
So I wait patiently while looking at the door with care,
Until what can be can no longer have been,
And when my coffee is all drank,
And the bill is paid,
Though some part of my spirit may have sank,
The best of it, I will still have made.

By Devon Coupland