TOM C.’S WOMAN by Scott Hayworth

Here where all the traffic meets angry

the droning noise demanding my attention pounds

& manners must be spun out to the rim,

cursed ferocious & dodging the bites of dogs

beaten frayed & closest to the phone

leery betrayed & under the hood of my car

overdrawn forbidden & snowed in for the winter

unannounced unrewarded unremarked in my own back yard

breathing & rising, breathing & falling

dreaming in the time when my sleep should be

& sleeping in my dreams, I am.


& you are never here.

I never see you here.

You, of all people, are never, ever here.


But then, if the morning comes w/ coffee & bacon

& the music of one guitar

& Irish whiskey poured out like pennies from a jar


w/ the rain coming & going,

there easy unbridled & healing in a natural way

silent agnostic & pain free after years of pain

American connected & naked in my own motel

anonymous essential & under the gun of my own choosing

bald-faced & game & teeming w/ nugatory rhythms

& hungry & alert & lively as a red-footed lizard am I.


& there you are.

So I see.

It is you, of all people, there you are.

You are there.

Scott Hayworth, Kentucky USA, works as a lawyer.