Shoot Out

this old song drifts into a saloon, and we are
friends. you and I, that is, and the song
embraces. we're drinking boiling mad whisky, sweet
as dirt. your words are icebergs that come to me
across the perfect distance. all white is the
same. knowing this makes us hold hands. the piano
invents a tinny tone, just for the fretful display
of building a barn. tomorrow, that is. today, the
piano is home, just as the whisky washes our
souls. we sail into the daily card game, expecting
any desperado to pull out a shooting iron. those
are words enough. I have heard plenty and just
want my say. I want your say as well, rustling in
my ear. tumbleweeds roll along  the dusty byway
with practical assurance. I am a participant,
filled with gunplay or drift. when we stop
talking, the gunfire will resound. that will
jangle the words we say, only to be built anew.
later we will walk home, holding hands. oddly,
this whole story hangs together.