Superstition sunrise bleeds
between the jagged rocks,
the road rolls on into the desert.
Walking the hilltop, cactus and thorns adorn
wooden crosses and markers,
‘Killed by indians’, ‘gunshot’,
Into the town and along the main street,
wind whips the sand, blasting
tired paint, leather faces, and faded signs.
Dusters billow and flap, revealing
weathered holsters, well oiled six-guns.
A shot rings out.
Buy a postcard of the town too tough to die.