At The Veranda

her hair is black and curly
and she is so tight
and young and you
do not speak to her
as she waits for
her lover at
the veranda of
this house

you stand on a door
half open where your
eyes take the
luxury of looking
at her

she blushes and
pretends
that she is scrolling
a name in her
cell phone

you pretend you
look at the stars
crowding a black
cloud up
the silent sky

she steals a look at you
she wants you
but she is here
at the master's
bedroom
and her name
has always been
fear

he looks at her again
and winks
in the mirror beside
her

'she is fast asleep' he said.
she has no answer
she smiles.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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