Gunslinger’s Afternoon
by Enrique Dryere
(Honorable Mention • Poetry)

A knot of dust,
It gave the whisky texture.
But still, I could not wash from my mouth,
A taste I’d acquired that morning.

The acrid smoke, a lousy cloak,
For the rotten musk of sweat.
The empty rattling of the piano,
Did rattle my mind as well.

A dozen bottles,
And a dozen more,
But not enough,
I could not rest my head.

There was one less hand,
To deal upon the poker table.
Men brought their broken promises,
And no one ever won.

Two men had met on the tumbling road,
A windswept morning, touched by a polished sun.
Now, one rest in a coffin,
And the other may as well be hung.