by Daniel Romo
There’s a gunfight at the O.K. Corral. I’m a spectator stuck in the stocks. It started in the saloon (a spat over spades), but spilled into the street. The sheriff tries to regain control: shoots the sky with his shotty. Two vultures drop like leaden bloody clouds. The bartender says This is bad for business, and hides behind the whores. I feel safe because I’m nestled behind a family of cacti. But the Can-Can dancer is high-kicking my way with a smile too big to signify a simple hi. My hands instinctively wave, but I’m not glad to see her. My head was under the influence when I proposed. And when I cheated. She takes off her garter and blindfolds me. I recall late night lovin’ and moonshine. I say, Darlin’, please let me out. After all, you were gonna’ be my wife. She reminds me I like to be teased and replies, In a minute. After your tongue tastes Jim Bowie’s knife.