I always wanted

to ride into town,

point my Colt .44

down the street,

fire off some rounds over the heads

of strangers and friends.

 

Bulbs burn bright red,

inviting patrons

up the steep steps where

the red-haired girl waves

from the top stair,

saying good-bye to the dreams

she could never quite imagine.

 

The bullet hole in the mirror

would like to tell a story,

but reflects only the misery

in his gray eyes, as I wheel

my Strawberry Roan

around on his heels,

Dodge gunfire

and ride out of town.