Marshall Dillon thinks,
How did everybody's problem become my problem?
His trigger finger hurts
And he's out of Alleve.
He gets in his Toyota and heads out of town,
Leaving Dodge City to the alley cats.
As he drives through the desert,
There are three coyotes watching from a ridge.
One is Freedom,
The second is Sorrow.
The third may have been a cactus, or a bird.
Oh, fold me in your great dark wings, thinks Marshall Dillon.
I am sick of dust
And this stupid leather vest.
After several hours, as the morning rises behind him,
The Marshall pulls over to stretch his back.
He takes off his silver star and tosses it into the lightening sky;
On its descent, it intersects perfectly with the yellow face of the sun.
"Just like Little Sure Shot," runs through his melting mind like a one-off hit by The Music Explosion.
No one ever sees Marshall Dillon again.
(image by david son of lone wolf wagner)