“This poem’s speaker removed from what he describes his feelings unattached”
He stood leaning against the saloon door
Black Stetson tilted to one side
A wicked side glance stare
Thumb of right hand firmly placed
In a well supported brown leather holster
His frame skeletal
A rough grey/black beard not quite hiding a deep scar
On his left cheek.
His compadre, statuesque
Standing to his right with a firm grip on the barrel of his rifle
While the third member of the party sat hunkered
Anxiously looking off into the distance.
The street deserted except for three horses tethered
Outside the sheriffs office.
The rainstorm was turning extremely voilent
Loud rumbles of thunder followed by
A loud crash of lightening
This was the trigger for a loud exchange of gunfire
In that instant three became one.
No epitaph was carved on their tombstones.
(c)Poetry from The ManShed
08/09/19
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