Tuesday, August 04, 2020


These plain clothes of mine.
I'm only a boy, green like

the weeds in this lot beside
the bar full of cow men

badly in need of a bath.
I can smell them even

here. The wind picks up
dust off the dirt street, carries

it farther than imagination
can run, farther than

the sheriff will go without
armed men beside him.

That's how this town is.

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