The Order in Which We Do Things: The Poetry of Tom Wayman

Wayman in Love

Wayman in Love At last Wayman gets the girl into bed. He is locked in one of those embraces so passionate his left arm is asleep when suddenly he is bumped in the back. “Excuse me,” a voice mutters, thick with German. Wayman and the girl sit up astounded as a furry gentleman in boots and a frock coat climbs in under the covers. “My name is Doktor Marx,” the intruder announces settling his neck comfortably on the pillow. “I’m here to consider for you the cost of a kiss.” He pulls out a notepad.“Let’s see now, we have the price of the mattress, this room must be rented, your time off work, groceries for two, medical fees in case of accidents….” “Look,” Wayman says, “couldn’t we do this later?” The philosopher sighs, and continues: “You are affected too, Miss. If you are not working, you are going to resent your dependent position. This will influence I assure you, your most intimate moments….” “Doctor, please,” Wayman says.“All we want is to be left alone.” But another beard, more nattily dressed, is also getting into the bed. There is a shifting and heaving of bodies as everyone wriggles out room for themselves. “I want you to meet a friend from Vienna,” Marx says.“This is Doktor Freud.” The newcomer straightens his glasses, peers at Wayman and the girl. “I can see,” he begins, “that you have two problems….” The Poetry of Tom Wayman / 3 ...