Arthritis walks funny like a cowboy
through saloon doors
that curse behind his back
- godammit all t’hell !
Every joint chaws tabacca.
The floorboards creak.
His feet thud like walking sticks.
The bar leans out against him.
I pour his whiskey neat and say
‘How you been Mr. Arthritis?’
He pokes his hat with the sharp end of his pistol
and says that he’s seen better times.
For a while we watch long-legged girls
kick their thighs high into the air.
At night I watch him rest his head on a saddle.
His boots point up towards the moon.
Clouds tiptoe considerately across the sky.
His campfire glows dull red
for a long time in the dark.