he walks
toward trouble
as if it was
of no concern
to him
and trouble
in whatever form
it takes
moves aside
for the big man
it knows
no matter how fast
it draws
how tough
it is
how much abuse
it can take
it is no match
for our hero
who drove cattle
to feed a nation
tamed the West
won the war
was the man
of the hour
any hour
every hour
gave us hope
he would always
be there
when trouble called
until the day
cancer came
and won
the day
as it almost
always does
to heroes
to villians
to us all
outside
the silver screen
in real life
where there are
no rewrites
no retakes
as the cameras
roll
without pause
in our lives

one forgets
how graceful
he was
acting with every part
of his body
that dancer training
coming into play
the quintessential tough guy
chip on his shoulder
the old one two
too smart
for his own good
never totally bad
but always
that Irish heart
glowing
love for the girl
on the right side
of the tracks
and he
always from the wrong
part of the city
that hitching
of his shoulders
just before
he carries on
always dying
in a blaze of gunfire
or the chair
pretending to be
yellow
as a favor
for his childhood pal
Pat O’Brien
the priest
even though
his character
had no need
of redemption
he took
whatever punishment
or justice
that came his way
with the same
tilt of the head
those eyes
defiant
the hint
of a smile
on his lips

It comes blundering over the
Boulders at night, stays
Frightened outside the
Range of my campfire
I go to meet it at the
Edge of the light