Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Tombstone


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’,

‘unknown’, ‘hung

by mistake.’

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.

#185

 

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