It’s March fifth again 

Cold, wet and damp 

She was supposed to meet me here 

A no show again 

That makes seven years 

Holding back tears 

In the men’s room no less 

Left to my own devices 

She had that bathroom charm 

That pazazz that made you feel like a man 

I awoke on the cold green tile 

Soaked in what I hoped was water but knew was urine 

Staring at a broken fan behind a rusted grate 

I don’t dare move 

A moustached man enters 

He offers me a wide array of wine 

Merlots, Cabs and Pinots 

He knows, 

He’s the man I wished I was.