By Joseph Milosch
Above the mountain peaks, sparse clouds
appeared in mid morning. As noon cut short
the shadows of the rails and the posts,
the town dressed in the color
of dust on sky.
Standing under the porch
awning, I rubbed the rail
and watched the cabin’s door.
Softly as whispers came the sounds
of the soles of peoples’ shoes,
scuffling across the hideout’s floor.
The times had grown
indifferent to crimes of robbery
and blood. The table with its deck
of cards seemed out of sort.
Who leaned the chair against the wall?
West of the cabin stood
the town’s boot hill. The scape stands
straight up and down like the tall
slim bars, which looped
the headstone and the mound of dirt.
From this place there
is no escape for weeds sprouting
between the cracks of clay. Although
on the other side of the bars, weeds do
break root and tumble, seemingly without
impatience with their brief existence.