Border Town
The days in Border Town shimmer
with dust that hangs in the air palpable as pudding.
The nights lonesome as a coyote's cry,
and black as death, except for the bright lights
from El Paso, flickering like fireflies.
'You're wasting your time, Johnny, ' Sally says,
pouring thick black coffee into his tin cup.
'Them mines are dry as coyote bones
now that the rush is over and everybody's
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