The man in the cowboy hat picks up an ice chunk
And grins at the man with the pistol.
On the other side of the rotting porch steps,
A silver-plated pistol is handed over the sloped floor.
Strutting lean and bare-chested across the hot sand,
The man tilts the pistol up and fires above his head.
The man propped on the door, puffing up like a toad,
Whacks him across the jaw.
The man in the hat pressed against the floor.
Peeking from the powdery gray dirt underneath,
He squats and gazes over his boy shoulder
With his dark eyes raised in oath.
The other man cackles and circles his buddy with a cocky swagger.
The man sights the pistol between the dark, wide eyes,
Turns, and glowers at his buddy.
He ducks, hollering with his hands up.
“You wouldn’t shoot a man down in cold blood.”
The blast bounces hollow off the walls.
As he passes, shirt-tail hanging, the man turns around,
Listening for the car.