The Old West

A poem

The Indian Chief walked into the saloon 
flinched, and shot an arrow at the mirror.
The cowboys cackled, clustered round
as the old Chief walked to the gilded mirror and fingered the glass.
“He’s never seen his reflection before! A ha ha ha!”
They took his shoulders and shook him around, ruffled his hair,
but he didn’t react. 
He was locked onto the eyes of his reflection.
“My horse done the same thing when it saw a mirror!”
“A-har-har-har!”
Then the Chief took a deep breath, stepped right into the mirror, and disappeared.

One cowboy spit a mouthful of whiskey.
Another fainted and knocked over a spittoon.
All the spit and goop inside spilled across his neighbor's boots. 
He looked down at them and said, “Ah, Christ! You messed up…”
The cowboy stopped complaining cause a puddle of blood
just hit his toes, and was rising to his ankles.
He looked up to see a black hole where the mirror was,
and a torrent of blood gushing forth.
The blood looked black in the scant light of the kerosene lamps.

It covered everything in the saloon,
everything in the town of Tombstone,
every inch of the Old West.

It’s still there if you look hard enough.

Hell, you don’t gotta look hard at all.

It’s the red in the sign of the Motel 6.