Someone Pass The Ketchup Poem by Mark Heathcote

Someone pass the Ketchup. Pensive waiting,
equating hands of time filled with emptiness
absent it seems of company, still not eating,
what's 'keeping him, ' how badly does he expiate?
Or apologize, treat his one dinner date.
I'm-famished. I'm-past the point of hunger.
'Jeez, ' I hope he warms his bloody plates.
It wouldn't have happened when I was younger.
I'm going cold-on-this meal I want him,
I'll slip out of my heels and sneak a look.
I'll pinch his bottom, and I'll stay in trim.
'Isn't he yummy? ' Who needs a cookbook?
If he's lucky, I'll be wearing the thyme-
on a slow-timer together, we'll chime.