Say I do it.
Say I hang you on the wall
Like a desperado.
A wanted man. 

Say I deputize a
Few sixteen and seventeen
Year olds.
How long would I search for you?

A cow town can’t
Become Sacto overnight—
Especially with bandits
Running around.

These pioneers and
Barkeeps fled the east to
Make their fortune here—
Yet utterly unguarded.

Will it take a brigade,
Or an army, perhaps?
Or did we leave our ranks
At Plymouth rock?

The frontier isn’t final
If not for dangerous
Spittoon-seeking
And seedily saddled gunslingers.

You are little more than
A picture to a town in a
Feigned fear, desperado.
You haven’t struck in a week.

I could only hope, that
As the law of this town,
You would visit me in the street
At noon—10 paces.

I can’t shoot, or kiss,
Or lament, or cry, or curse
Or be struck down in a blaze
By a photo.


Go on 3, or 5, whatever it takes.
Let you lie bleeding,
Or let me fall dead—Please.
Just show yourself again.