Stepping out of the saloon’s shade,
the midday sun is a yellow slap,
dust swirling from horses’ hooves.
I hear the sheriff’s voice like lead,
“Son, it’s time to get out of Dodge,”
his star reflecting a hard glint,
drawing lines across the town square,
each step heavy with yesterday’s misdeeds.
Boardwalks creak under surrender’s weight,
windows painted with saints and sinners,
a piano falters in the unforgiving light.
The deserters, ghosts in silent boots,
trace routes sketched in tobacco stains,
their shadows seeping into long streets.
In the general store, whispers rustle,
cornmeal and shotgun shells, traded futures,
the currency of desperate men and women.
Wind skirts church bells as memories stir,
precipices of gunpowder and prayer,
carving marks in this timeless clay.
Evening gathers in saloon corners,
behind wagons and beneath canted hats,
the horizon as endless as regret,
each sunset a grudging invitation:
Hitch your horse to the unspoken,
pack your past in a small, tired sack.
It’s time to turn your back on Dodge.