It’s high noon in the not-so-OK corral.
Horses are getting weary, spooked.
Tumbleweeds and split rail fences
embroidery the western landscape.
I feel my heart tugging away
at the barb of wire coiled around
a scroll of Naugahyde peeking out
from a prairie schooner wagon
as the mule team chomps
at their bits, pawing at the red
Texas clay, keen on striking out,
Oregon-bound, eager for
a little Pacific redemption.