he is a lone silhouette
that moves through the dust
smooth as a silver dollar
there are always gunslingers
jagged and dirty
the whiskey is drunk without ice
and the saloon doors groan
a soft warning when anyone enters
but here the outlaws don’t wear spurs
there is no gunshot
nor sulphury mist
only a subtle swish as the knives
are withdrawn somewhere behind you
only the dull punch between your shoulders
and a moment to look behind
to catch the cool smile and gentle eyes
before the dirty ground
French kisses you
.
