Doesn't shave much anymore, has cut himself too often
to keep his fingers steady on the blade; wears big hats that
shade out his eyes; is often broken in love, then scattered;
falls down when he walks, so watches carefully before he treads;
drinks a pint of whiskey a day for his health and carries
a six-pack of heat on his hip in case of trouble.
And he's always looking for that.

Trains don't run where he comes from
and the horses are all ship-ribbed with hunger.
There's a woman he left behind, of course,
with breasts as big as brass spittoons and
hair the colour of coins on a dead man's eyes.
But he never thinks of her anymore without reaching
for the straight razor, so he doesn't.

The sun, staring down on a scene with him
placed in a tavern, or on his back
in the middle of the red-dirt road, alone
can predict how long it is until he falls again.
No one else here knows his name.
The vultures, thick and liquid in the evening air,
are dreaming of his bones.