a mental movie

When old King Colt still ruled the ribald West

With iron hand: You buttoned up your vest.

Put on your ten-buck hat, strapped on your gun

And stepped out blinking in the point-blank sun.

As you stood still: hip-booted in the heat

Of noon: Not a sound moved along the street.

Except where some crazed flies trapped out of doors

Buzzed in the razor shadows of shut stores.

As you walked warily: The hidden eyed

Felt the oiled weapon slapping at your side.

Just a slight tic, a tremor in your face,

Betrayed you to the lethal commonplace.