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are withdrawn somewhere behind you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

.