The veranda is painted pink, and the red curtains are undulating in the slight draft.
The French door remains half-open
day and night.
The cars go back and forth on the motorway,
day after day.
A slight turn,
the gas station,
and then the building with the red curtains.
No one is sitting at the balcony.
Not in the morning,
not in the evening.
But the flowers are trimmed, and a book is always there, on the pedestal table.
Every morning he thinks of a plan, of how to meet the resident with the red curtains.
Every evening, he is so tired.
Tomorrow is another day.
fiction poetry "fact" photography