a man in a poncho
unshaven, lantern jawed
cheroot clamped between
badly stained teeth
strides with great purpose
down cobbled streets
past artisan baker
and high-class butcher
past bijou jeweller
and chi-chi designer
until, upon reaching
Ye Olde Whisky Shoppe
which appears to be
the end of his trail
grinds out his smoke
hitches imaginary steed
to imaginary hitching post
removes silver spurs
quietly enters
tipping his Stetson and
in a rasping voice
redolent of heat and dust
a voice full of weariness
and vast distances
politely enquires
if anyone knows
where a man might find
something to drink
around here
Published by colinhopkirk
Poet, writer, artist. Writing and performing in England, publishing anywhere. Member of Hexameter performing poets. Workshops, projects, cross-arts collaborations.
View more posts
Colin Hopkirk Poetry 