saloon

it’s the same chord
pulled higher and lower
like a kid and venetian blinds

if you go on auto-pilot
and you’re living a few lives
spin the bottle finds a universe

keep your britches on
holster tight, spurs sharp
and aim your spines upward

denial, bursting at the seams
slothen, leaned back in a chair
chewed up, wet cigar, dangling
tips its hat in the mirror at dawn

don’t bother blinking
he’s there all-right
blowing smoke
right in
“your”
face

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