Trying to hide.
Someone is coming.

I  recall John Wayne,
Hog leg in leather sheath.

I reach to find the trail gun,
Strip the leather.

Sprawled along the wall,
Behind the bed.

My pursuer arrives,
Looms large over me.

I aim and fan the hammer.
The old gun bucks, belches.

“It might have worked,”
Through gray smoke, he sighs….

Towering over me,
“Were we still alive.”

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