The Gun.
The gun was tucked
into the belt
of your jeans
the hat (your father's
borrowed trilby)
pushed to the back
of your head
you had recently shot
the boss-eyed sheriff
behind the grocer's store
and rode with Jessie James
across the open plains
of the local park
and pumped Pete Badham
full of imaginary lead
in the back not the head
to have a better chance
and entering the bar
of the High Rider
you ordered a glass
of Red Eye
(water from the tap
in a borrowed glass)
and chattered up
the girl (slut as your mother
would have called her)
who wore feathers
and a very short skirt
(Dave Walker's sister)
and sipped the water
with a pulled face
and still had time
before sundown
(your mother calling
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poem by Terry Collett
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