GLINT WESTWARD
A mote of prairie dust becomes pale rider, Bolted to the saddle, stetson low slung. Cactus chin of the chapped sidewinder Bristles with scorn at the cow town’s dung.
What sagebrush wisdom gleams From that fistful of molars? Only the creak of cross- beams And the wail of women’s dolours.
His poncho unfurls, six-shooters blur in a whirl, Rattler’s eyes spit mean and yeller. From cherooted lips rolls his breathy pearl: ‘Make my payday, feller!’
Michael Small December, 1990; August 21-3, 2005