#9 - Frontier Justice

The tumbleweed jury blows
Into place, as the black
GENERAL STORE sign
Shows itself with stenographic
Distinction, fresh-painted and
Thick-lettered, the grocer’s
Affidavit of dry goods, spring seed,
Ammunitions. Dangling crowds
Whisper hearsay, squinting
Into the dusty sun of
Broadway. High atop
A russet horse glistening with
Sweat sits Clint Eastwood,
Chapped and leathered with
A mouthful of chew,
And in his hands, the steady hands
Of frontier justice, he holds
Twin gavels. Smoke drifts from
The lowering steel barrels
As the defendant drops to the
Ground, harboring hot lead
In his chest, dripping blood
That collects in his breast pocket,
Smearing the script
Of an unseen plea bargain.