Drawing High

The saloon doors swing double open
and the man my father predicted
steps into the sunlight. He's a big farmer
in a flannel shirt and bibs.
His boots fill the street
and he stands, one hand on his hip,
blinking at the horizon.

The population begins to assemble:
children in nightshirts, the preacher's wife
selling biscuits. A freight wagon arrives
two days early from Piedmont.
I have only three cartridges left.

Above the hotel a man is steadying his pistol.
The town is filling with gunslingers,
stonecutters. Beyond the livery
a carpenter's already at work.

I light my last cigarette, step out
into the middle of an ambush, thinking
Someone's been trading dynamite
to the indians.
The farmer is scratching his balls.
I could take him now, I could be faster
than he would believe.
By the weight of the rifle
in his left hand I can tell
that he will be good. The lead,
if I'm lucky, should enter the heart
almost painlessly.

It's a matter of timing: simply
to drop the man on the roof
before anyone sees me move.