The Lady on the Bus

 

Yesterday is but today's memory

Tomorrow is today's dream.

Kahlil Gibran

 

 

 

My previous blog reminded me of a poem I wrote a few years ago

when I would ride the bus to work. Are things really as they seem?

 

  

The lady on the bus
sits quietly,
hands folded,
eyes closed.
Anyone seeing her
would guess
she was
praying,
meditating,
sleeping.
How shocked
they would be
if they could see
the hot blood pounding,
images abounding,
silent fantasies resounding.

A sweet, soft, silky ear,
gently held by her lips.
A roving finger
in her moist mouth.
A hot tongue making her
feel young.
A strong hand at her back
softly stroking,
teasing,
caressing.
Lips toying with her lips,
lightly,
before becoming
more demanding.

Two hearts beating together.
Poetry in motion.
A quiver of emotion,
a tremble of desire,
an insatiable fire.
Firm arms
hold her near,
releasing any fear.

The lady on the bus,
lets out a silent moan,
she sighs,
dizzy with her own
thoughts of love.
Anyone seeing her
would guess
she was praying,
meditating
or sleeping
never seeing the 
tumultuous fire
within.

E. Moscoso
June, 1988