POETRY IN MOTION

The Final Showdown



                  They huddle on the sidewalk,
                  Hide behind closed doors.
                  The children are excited.
                  An idiot guffaws.

                  The chickens keep on pecking
                  At nothing in the dirt,
                  Horses stand in silence,
                  The girls forget to flirt.

                  A ball of stringy grassy stuff
                  Rolls wind-swept idly by.
                  (They always do in cowboy films;
                  I always wonder why).

                  The big hand on the chapel clock
                  Jerks slowly to the hour.
                  Vultures circle overhead
                  Half-ready to devour.

                  Then from the northern end of town
                  A lonesome figure comes
                  Two pistols holstered at his hip,
                  His strokes them with his thumbs.

                  Then all heads turn, as from the south
                  Another comes in view.
                  The undertaker rubs his hands
                  And dreams of Timbuktu.

                  They don't look right, they don't look left,
                  Their mean eyes look ahead.
                  Each knowing any minute now
                  They'll kill or fall down dead.

                  They come within a bullet's range.
                  The chapel bells are blurred
                  The big hand reaches twelve o'clock,
                  A single shot is heard.

                  And never ever do I know
                  Who dies and who will roam.
                  I have to leave before the end
                  To catch the last bus home.


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The Final Showdown

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