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THE GUN.

The gun was tucked
into the belt

of your jeans
the hat (your father’s

borrowed trilby)
pushed to the back

of your head
you had recently shot

the boss-eyed sheriff
behind the grocer’s store

and rode with Jessie James
across the open plains

of the local park
and pumped Pete Badham

full of imaginary lead
in the back not the head

to have a better chance
and entering the bar

of the High Rider
you ordered a glass

of Red Eye
(water from the tap

in a borrowed glass)
and chattered up

the girl (slut as your mother
would have called her)

who wore feathers
and a very short skirt

(Dave Walker’s sister)
and sipped the water

with a pulled face
and still had time

before sundown
(your mother calling

you in for bed)
to have it out

with Billy the Kid
and Wyatt Earp

blowing the smoking gun
just a kid

being a cowboy
having fun.

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Tags

poem, boy, cowboy, 1950s, london

I am an artist and poet, short story writer, dramatist, digital artist and photographer. I live in Sussex with my wife and four of my eight children. I am a grandfather of eight grandchildren.

My favourite artist are: Picasso, Warhol, Rothko, Klee, Van Gogh, Degas etc.

I am 64 years old and love the arts.

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