Odessa Poem by Mark Money

He left the cover of the doorway
and twirled his keys around his trigger finger
the way a gunslinger twirls his Colt.
he squinted his eyes like the sun was in 'em-
i guess he imagined he looked a lot like Clint.

he can't forget the sound of bootheels on board floors
the slap of leather on a fresh horse
how men used to die in the dusty streets.

his grip is still strong but his eyes are hazy
his trigger finger's still itching
but he's not sure which direction to turn.
it's just as well. all the desperadoes have fallen.

the star of a flag draws him west-
he remembers west is where
blowing away your gunsmoke
doesn't leave you out of breath.

he's chafing from the chaps
and bothered by the bandana
but he stumbles west
to watch the sun set in Odessa.

© (1997—Tulsa, OK)