Cowboy Night At the Corner Bar

Cowboy Night at the Corner bar The dark and the wind and the grey broken sidewalk, pushed me to the bar, like a bunker at night with its black door ajar Cowboy Night at the Corner Bar country was playing which drew me right in, and when I had pushed through the smoke and the hum I saw they were dressed like Gene Autrey for fun, with 45 replicas bought through the mail, with bullets big as biscuits shining round their tum a Sargasso sea of mutual respect, they heaved and they shoved to the foot-stomping sound: then as if by order one by one, they turned round and gave me “the hanging –judge” look, (not seeing my Jimmy Stewart tassels and Tonto black eyes) and sure as I turned to go back out the door, someone threw a Bowie knife into the floor, so I kicked a spittoon and splashed their fantasy good, so five or six followed me, guns blazing with hate and I shot down three of them just past the gate with spurs jingling and instincts tingling a friend from the whorehouse’s winchester fired: she shot down with pleasure, then came out with measure, undertaker Murphy, all suited and clean and he gave me that “don’t blame me”, smile, the one they all do… so I holstered the big iron still smoking and hot, remembering the cowboys I’d dressed up and shot