The Oldie 'Missed Appointment'
 

OK, here’s the latest competition. Tessa says:

Recently someone rang me up in London to ask me why I wasn’t at the station in Devon. A poem, please, not necessarily on that particular example, called ‘Missed Appointment’. Maximum 16 lines.

Entries to ‘Competition 143’ by post (The Oldie, 65 Newman Street, London W1T 3EG), fax (020 7436 8804)
or email (comps@theoldie.co.uk) by 21st October. Don’t forget to include your postal address.

I got on the wrong train in Bradford
and missed my connection at Crewe,
which is why I'm now stuck here in Scunthorpe
instead of in Paris with you.

More may follow, though it seems sacriligious to risk a parody of one of my favourite James Fenton poems.

I suppose it's inevitable that my mind should run on such things.

Missed Appointment

The doorbell rang. I caught my breath.
I drew the bolt and it was Death.
He fumbled in his cloak and took
From some recess a little book.
His glasses slid along his nose.
‘It's Mr Whitworth, I suppose.’
The voice was colder than the stones.
It froze the marrow of my bones.
But I replied in breezy tones,
‘No Whitworth here. My name is Jones.
Whitworth resides at forty-seven,
An ancient shag, and ripe for Heaven,
His mind long gone, his body bent.’
Death nodded, tipped his hat and went.
Jones passed away that very night.
I sent a wreath, as well I might.

As you were. What follows is now the definitive version.


Missed Appointment

The doorbell rang. I caught my breath.
I drew the bolt and it was Death.
He fumbled in his cloak and took
From some recess a little book.
He put his glasses on his nose.
‘It’s Mr Whitworth, I suppose.’
A frosty smile played on his lips
That chilled me to my fingertips,
So I replied in breezy tones,
‘No Whitworth here. My name is Jones.'
Whitworth resides at forty-seven,
An ancient shag, and ripe for Heaven,
His mind long gone, his body bent.’
Death nodded, tipped his hat and went.
Jones passed away that very night.
I sent a wreath, as well I might.

John, that's excellent; a really funny take on the subject :D

tickled to death
 

Funny-macabre, right up my street, though I do balk at 'I/eye' as end-rhymes.

Point taken, bazza. I'll have a thunk. Thunk over. The result is posted.

As so often, you have the remedy wittily at hand.

Now that we're into nit-picking this little gem, John, can you possibly get rid of one or two of the 'his's, I wonder?

He fumbled in his coat and took
From some recess a little book.
He put his glasses on his nose.
‘It's Mr Whitworth, I suppose.’
A frosty smiled played on his lips

Just a suggestion:

He wore an overcoat and took
From some recess a little book.
Bifocals rested on his nose.
‘It's Mr Whitworth, I suppose.’
A frosty smiled played on his lips

... or whatever... :)

I see wat you're getting at, Jayne. I wonder if bifocals isn't going too far.

As well you might. Surely, Death wears a cloak, though. I like this much.