It fills the room in which we dine

at tables doomed for eight or nine;

the champagne glasses deftly clinked,

though champagne isn't what we drink.

The chicken textured rubber duck

and vegetables are overcooked;

rain dribbles down the window-panes,

the walls exhibit aged stains.

The waitress frowns, absorbed, remote;

you make a sound, you clear your throat......

..........then whisper something indistinct:

our stiltedness makes others wince.

Is it the presence of an absence

or the absence of a presence?

This subject that you fail to mention,

always trailing off mid-sentence.

The portraits yawn, the music plinks,

a napkin's drawn to bloodless lips.

So many seats remain unfilled:

it isn't quite as it was billed.

It never is and seldom was,

we visit every year because

we once were smitten in this fog,

and bitten now seek hair of dog.