A sister’s guests, shimmering tribe,
are wedged close at the dining table.
Handsome as a bowl of fruit, yet
you worry their ruddy cheeks,
their deblemished brows, will wilt
at some stupid thing your parents say.

Late, shut away, they’ll bleat their secrets.
They’ll shriek and bump and waggle
through nightgowns, singing into hairbrushes
and never mention you
behind the light-slivered door as you pass,
once or twice, going for water.

Rip Underwood owned a dental lab for many years, along with volunteer work, but has retired to devote his energies to finding outlets for his poetry as he explores a more inward artistic journey. His poems have been published with Poet’s Choice, Poetry Super Highway, Volney Road Review, Change Seven, and The Bloom.