John Tustin
She’s
The kind of woman
Who walks across poems
At 9:30 at night
After the sun is down
And the drink is drunk
And the garbage overflows
With the cans or bottles
And the blues or the country
Or the rock and roll
Plays
And
She has long black hair
In tight curled rings
That enamor the sun
And eyes that burn almost black
Into the gut and the soul
And the heart and the mind
And
She’s
The kind of woman
That keeps you waiting
At the bar
Or for a return phone call
Or any kind of answer at all
But
When she finally responds
The heart leaps
Like a prisoner watching a guard
Walking swiftly toward his cell
Halfway between freedom and the death chamber
Holding a piece of paper
That may or may not be signed
By the Governor.