Whiskey Poem by J. Robert Trebor

after four months on the trail
the last of his cows finally to market
knocking dust off his shirt and chaps
heading to town
his only thought whiskey

strolling down the street
the saloon in sight
pausing
he sees two men settling a fight
transfixed
suddenly pushed back
his brain cannot register
blood appears
then spreads through his shirt

two men in the street
drew pistols on each
shots echo the day
down is the cowboy
thinking of whiskey
as he instinctively wets his lips
then dies

two men in the street
drunk
palm their weapons
put aside their anger
grateful no one was hurt
into the saloon
whiskey their treat

raising their glasses
they drink
while a dead
cowboy lies in the street
denied