MY 2 CENTS

At dawn, I part with my little one’s smile,A fleeting warmth that lingers awhile.Through city streets, I tread alone,To where the river sings in undertone.

He walks the streets, his head held low,A shadow where the neon glows.The watchers wait, the lines are drawn,One wrong step, and he is gone.

Beneath the blood-red evening sky,In 1809, where shadows lie,A lone rider forged of grit and flame,A specter known but without a name. His Colt speaks