High Noon And No One To Shoot Poem by John W. McEwers

I'm up, I'm up.

Jeez.

A cold splash of water,
a quick draw
and keys go jingle jangle in my hand.

sweaty palms in a cold air
an old smell
like brick and oil
in a part of town
urban
and free.

Rich youngsters pay out the
watch your sass
just to live with a bedroom covered in
naked beams

Industrial, they call it,
another kitsch motif
for the cloistered pall
of the wealthy

Me,

I can't afford not to spring
up from leaky squeaky springs
and rusted bedsheets
cold iron handrails
on a staircase to a dusty street
where it's just them, and me.

Go on, runt,
draw.

The angles of your face are pre-fab.

Mine are hand-sawn.