1970
Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
"Blood in the Street"
The sun hung high over Johnson's Bend.
An air of suspense filled the town.
Wagons, they creaked with uncertainty.
There was hardly even a sound.
But the people, they stared at the figure,
That walked from the end of the town.
Joe Williams, the tender of the bar,
Moved away from his post at the window.
He knocked at the door of the rented room,
Of the man they called Gary Winslow.
Gary came out with his gun in his hand,
Then he, too, gazed out of the window.
Kicking dust up with his spurs,
A tall man in a hat walked the street.
He had an expensive silk shirt on his chest,
And high leather boots on his feet.
He stopped just three doors from the bar,
The wagons drove off of the street.
Gary Winslow strolled out of the bar.
The look of hate filled his blue eyes.
"It has come," the people whispered,
"Soon the man with the slowest gun dies."
Gary Winslow stopped short of the sidewalk,
And to the stranger he raised his eyes.
"Hello, Gary," the hatted man said,
As he put a hand on his gun.
Gary Winslow just stood there waiting,
Shielding his eyes from the sun.
The hatted man waited no more.
He shot the young man with his gun.
The townsmen ran out of their houses,
The businessmen out of their stores.
Young Gary Winslow just lay there,
And the people went back to their chores,
The townsmen back to their houses,
The businessmen back to their stores.
A hatted man rode out of the town,
Never again seeing Johnson's Bend.
He had ridden into town that morning,
And had made Gary Winslow's life end.
But his business had terminated
In the town of Johnson's Bend.
copyright 1999-2004 by Michael F. Nyiri
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