Cue tumbleweed.
Dust kicked up from his snakeskin boots catches to the northbound gale
He straddles the barren road; a stance ready to draw
He practices 1, 2, 3 gunshots just because he can
The sheriffs peer tentatively behind blinds
He holsters his Peacemaker, a Colt .45
The Southern breeze comes through the factory window taunting
able to come and go as it pleases
Sweat salting his crinkled brow aging his pasty face.
Buffalo Bill enters with North and Judd to observe
Heads down. Like the mechanisms they work with he is a machine,
precise, efficient.
He tips his hat to hide the identity of his sun-leathered face
A desert wind swings saloon doors sending gossip from whispering mouths to the ear of the Cowboy
His cigarette limply sticks to his thirsty lips, bouncing, balancing
He chuckles so smooth like his favorite whiskey
he cracks his calloused knuckles dismissing any daydream
Stitch, grease, fasten.
Kids. Wife. House.
Focus. No room for a daydream.
His mantra.
Spurs mimic the hiss of rattlesnakes as he mounts his horse
Moon Dance kicks up more dust bucking, sending a little more
Her saddle's stirrups jingle by her sides
It's quite a scene really, people gawk in awe at the epitome of the Southwestern hero.
Time to clock out, they march out like soldiers
Stitch, grease, fasten. Kids. Wife. House. No room for a daydream.
He chants in his mind like a revolving piece of his equipment he is
a machine. An industrial revolution.
Stitch, grease, fasten.
The American Dream.
The Cowboy removes his hat and swings it over his head as he "yahoo's" to the start of his adventure
His brief guttural proof of independence reveals an imprint his tight hat stamped on his forehead:
Made in
