Gunslingers

The air smells of cordite,

bullets fired in the same old argument

inflict the same old wounds,

without quite killing us off.

I’m the fastest

lip in the West;

quick on the draw

short on the temper;

still in the wrong.

The blood in the dust

dries in crusty patterns.

If we ever shoot straight,

maybe we’ll decipher them

more easily, from close range.