4.17.2012

The Gunslinger's Bluff

The features
of his apparition's face
are so soft it's as though
his Maker
used a dull knife
when carving his bones
or didn't bother
to finish whittling.
Then, as a final kidney shot
to whatever chance
the kid had
He slapped some
red hair on his head.
For thirty-five years
he's slinked about
with this curse
though he looks
not a day over my age.
All six-four of him
could easily disappear
back home out west
and very few people
would know the difference.
I can tell.
It's in that baritone false confidence
he whispers all night long.
Part of me feels bad
for not paying more attention
to his tales of female conquest
which bore me more
than counting ceiling tiles.

But when Buffalo's best lover
starts in on giving pointers
I perk up like a puppet
who's suddenly been fisted.
"You've got to talk to women
like you already know them,"
he says regarding the newly acquainted.
My eyes make the rare gesture
of locking with this ginger's
and give it to him straight
since my tongue's not bred for biting.
"If I knew the girl already
I wouldn't waste my breath."

He stares from stupid eyes
now belittled by a cynic
whose words have cut more flesh
than the Good Lord's busy hands.
Smiling, I change the subject.
There are some battles
best left for better men
way out there across
the desert.
When I find my true opponent
I shall take a sandy knee.

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