No, not me (response to TS Eliot)

He sits in a bright room
with damp notion of his impending
futile doom.
Because she sits there too
Beautiful resplendent but not
for you.
Or you, or you, or you--
she just sits there
and you just have to listen.

Edit: One reason this poem is bad is because of redundancy, there are many many others. I leave finding them as an exercise for the reader! :)