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 ******* go?
A grinning succubus.
Fire.
And the soul that flirted
with the night—
and every other *** 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? ******* A-right.
They were wayward trains
plagued by broken tracks.
And still, I loved them.
Cussing, spitting, rolling
through my nights.
Laughing
and *******
and crying a lot.
Screaming, you *******
And then making up
over a bottle of Thunderbird.
They left traces of a wildfire
on everything they touched.
My heart, my mind,
my ****
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.
Dec 11, 2025
Dec 11, 2025 at 10:22 AM UTC
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 ******* go?
A grinning succubus.
Fire.
And the soul that flirted
with the night—
and every other *** 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? ******* A-right.
They were wayward trains
plagued by broken tracks.
And still, I loved them.
Cussing, spitting, rolling
through my nights.
Laughing
and *******
and crying a lot.
Screaming, you *******
And then making up
over a bottle of Thunderbird.
They left traces of a wildfire
on everything they touched.
My heart, my mind,
my ****
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.
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
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