Politics

The new man swings
into town, gallops, pulls up

his reins in the center
of the dust blown street.

Two ivory handled guns
are on his hips. A sliver star

ablaze upon his chest. His horse
is golden, the saddle made

of spanish leather, shining in
the western sun. His eyes

are cobalt blue, like Nevada
lakes, they glisten with sweat,

with bravado. He doesn't
see the blackened bullet

already on it's way, in the air,
before the sound even finds

his ears. But for one more
split second he sits tall in the

saddle, surveys the town that he
assured them he could save.