Froward.
I found the word highlighted in my Bible.
I remember liking how it rolled off my tongue.
And thinking about tongues,
all the women I loved over the years came to mind.
Red dresses dancing
between shots of rock gut
and sloppy bar bands.
Wayward.
Full of drunken sailor vocabulary,
fingernails like a feral cat.
All twist and spark.
Unruly.
Thunder in a miniskirt;
honey, where’d your panties go?
A grinning succubus.
Fire.
And the soul that flirted
with the night—
and every other bum in the joint.
I lived with them.
Helped out with their kids.
Drank myself through them.
Played strip poker on
nights ripped mad
by cockroaches
and Sinatra.
My way? Fucking A-right.
They were wayward trains
plagued by broken tracks.
And still, I loved them.
Cussing, spitting, rolling
through my nights.
Laughing
and fucking
and crying a lot.
Screaming, you bastard.
And then making up
over a bottle of Thunderbird.
They left traces of a wildfire
on everything they touched.
My heart, my mind,
my cock.
Even when they carried
that cheap cardboard suitcase
out the door,
or stayed long enough to
crack my solace,
I inhaled them
like cheap cigarettes.
Sometimes harsh,
always alive.
And somehow beautiful
in the hunger
they left behind.
-
Author:
Thomas W Case (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: December 11th, 2025 10:46
- Comment from author about the poem: I just posted a new long-form reading on my YouTube channel — the first half of my short story Whoops! along with two poems, There Was a Time Without the Internet and Under My Bed. If you’d like to hear the pieces read aloud, here’s the link: 👉 YouTube Reading: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kq0UTaJahjg All my books are available on Amazon. Thanks for reading and for all your support. — Thomas W. Case
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
- Users favorite of this poem: Teddy.15, Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments4
Memories grit and flat raw this poem goes back through it. Nicely said Thomas
Thank you, my friend.
Most welcome Thomas
Magnificent, a peep into a poets life. And without such a life you wouldn't be a poet. Bukowski would be proud. 🌹
Thank you, sweet Teddy.
Excellent write, my friend! 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thank you. I appreciate it.
You are most welcome, Thomas!
This poem reflects on memory, desire, and the kind of chaotic love that defines a certain kind of lived-in, smoky, barroom existence. It’s not just a portrait of women you loved—it’s also a confession of who you were in those moments: reckless, open, a little damaged, but profoundly alive. Well Done Thomas
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