More and more, I’m going retro. Touch the real world. I’m contemplating a flip phone. Analog has benefits.
I got a library card.
Zane Grey fills half a long shelf. Writer of westerns, a hundred years ago. Many of the books have not been checked out in fifty years. There is a wonderful smell to old paper and ink, spines that crack slightly with gentle opening.
1873 was within living memory when Grey was writing. Homesteaders, miners, ranchers, rustlers, prostitutes, lawmen. Winchester lever action. Claim a piece of land and pass your genes to the next generation. If you fail at the mating dance…there’s always the profession of gunslinger.
belt hangs heavy
steel against my hip
glint of brass
polished shells
checkered walnut gripthe hammer click
acrid stench of cordite
spaced between heartbeatsout here
the sun will take your breath
this trickle down the spine
reminder of slow deathsomewhere a crevice
in a canyon
flowing cool and clear
wellspring of precious water
help a man to heal
wash the blood from his hands