Man wears Folly
slung low on his hip;
it spits its lunacy into an aching foot.

Spurred heels dig deep in the dirt
fingers twitching arms crooked at the side
sweat beaded across a furrowed brow.

Eyes squinting in the light of high noon
back hunched shoulders arched in the sun
barreling down its mighty gaze.

Cast upon two shade-less figures
twenty paces apart
in the rustic back alley of their ghost town.

A battle for eternity;
which man gets the last laugh?
Folly grins with a crooked smile.