Arthritis walks funny like a cowboy

through saloon doors
that curse behind his back
- godammit all t'hell!

Every joint chaws tabacca.

The floorboards creak.

His feet thud like walking sticks.

The bar leans out against him.
I pour his whiskey neat and say
‘How you been Mr. Arthritis? '

He pokes his hat with the sharp end of his pistol
and says that he's seen better times.

For a while we watch long-legged girls
kick their thighs high into the air.
At night I watch him rest his head on a saddle.
His boots point up towards the moon.

Clouds tiptoe considerately across the sky.

His campfire glows dull red
for a long time in the dark.