Rustler's Renaissance

So …

Once upon a moment

Luck beckons,

Then turns south.

No fire on the mountain.

No gift horse

Or its mouth.

Above the saloon

In a stale room 

One eye on the ceiling

The other on adieu

No one promised heaven

Or even

A damn good view.

Down below

A pack of drifters

Lurks as idle

As muttered threats

Until they hear

The signal

That sets them free.

Dust on the horizon;

Someone yells

Stampede.
Nostrils flaring,

Pistols blaring:

Someone’s burning

Rattlesnake weed.

Running hard

To the river

Where tracks

And sins

Disappear.

As if someone

Willed release:

Taming a hurricane,

A bandit priest.

Then, the hidden trail

To the secret canyon

That no posse will ever find.

In the distance

Near the concealed cabin
A lonesome fiddle

Greets an old companion —

A steel guitar

That had just made bail.

Soon, even the veterans

Feel the urge to dance;

Echoes of Butch

And Sundance

Trading desert jeans

for tailored pants;

Getting primed for

The revolution:

A Rustler’s Renaissance.