Emerging from a distant dust-up,
A lone rider approaches on horse.
The clip-clop gallop grows,
The panting animal is alarming,
Sweat paints and streaks down
The dark hide.
The rider wears a bandana
Over mouth and nose,
Beneath a once white hat.
His clothes are covered with the trail.

Next, he's in the leather tub
With suds from chest to hair,
Shaving cream covering his face,
Mirror in one hand,
Probably a gun on the floor of the tub.
Eyes and nose poking through the foam.

Later, we see the clean, pressed black shirt
From the back, outlining shoulders we know
Have been busy righting wrongs.
He puts a cockey tilt to his hat and pivots
With a Parodi between his clean, straight teeth.
The champion. The underdog vanguard.
Clint.