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C&I's Poem of the Week for 2/1/2012
A gambler or gun for hire it was all the same to him,
a different man, another notch, or dealer deal again.
The posses that have chased him would have liked to see him hang,
though few are alive, for most have died when the sound of his six gun rang.
The horse he rode, a Comanche paint, he’d stolen long ago
from an Indian in a knife fight down south in Mexico.
His bottle glinting and three-quarter drained of a dead man’s rot gut wine,
and boots that boast his father’s spurs of silver and design
made this man with haunting eyes and hat of faded black
glow eerie in the ghost town with the sunset at his back.
Crunching cemetery sand crust, he crossed to crush the men
who with rattlesnake mercy hogtied and murdered all that ever mattered to him.
One last drink, drank to her memory, before he ordered them out to the street,
then threw his bottle through the bank window to get them to their feet.
Seconds later, several faded from the shadows into sight
expecting talk, but what they got was flashing iron sights!
He cut one from the balcony, one from the saddle,
one through the chaps who dropped and soaked the gravel,
one near the hotel steps, one through the neck
who gurgled half his insides out before he hit the deck.
He never stopped moving; he was here and then was there
His aim was ever perfect while their bullets sprayed the air.
He killed one near the water trough who splashed in with a lurch.
But, the bullet from that shot struck a statue in the church
before one misfire, two misfires opened him to attack.
One outlaw with no ammo licked a bullwhip cross his back.
He spun and like a hammer threw his one misfired gun
and squeezed the other’s trigger while his target staggered stunned.
The worst of those he’d ridden to see
seized upon the moment to charge back from retreat.
Seconds fractured like stained glass. Everything went cold,
but the burning through his back had his reflex slightly slowed.
Their next volley caught him; two bullets had found home.
Clothes darkened at the wounds where his hot blood flowed
With anger he aimed and continued to unload.
The last two stumbled forward and tumbled stone dead.
The last of his rounds emptied each of their heads.
He stood for a while alone in the sun
He’d earned more notches for the grip of each…
His six gun slipped from his pale, clammy hand
And he dropped to his knees in the hot summer sands.
Wagon wheels and tumble weeds was all there was to see
the lone desperado who lie dead on Whiskey Street.
C&I's poem of the week for 02/01/2012. To submit your poems for consideration, please send them to mail@cowboysindians.com with "poetry" in the subject line. Selected entries will appear online.
