The Cowboy


Toy guns were forbidden
at the battered women's
refuge where we stayed,
but I didn’t care.

I kept mine, a shiny
revolver snatched
from the Lone Ranger,
underneath wings

made from socks
and moth eaten shirts.
Its eight bullets came
from my breath,

cold as the woman
in charge. I practiced
duels with her in dreams,
always hoping she would

be the first to fall,
never anticipating slipping
on a weapon of my own

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