TUMBLEWEED JUSTICE

— by Michael Jerry Tupa

It was the summer of ‘63,
when l’il Slow Joe, last name Dundee,
appeared on the far horizon,
with the shimmering sun just risin’
smell of pancakes and sizzling bacon
lingering in the glowing dawn.

Sheriff Green and Sam Whitter were gone,
only real law left was Doc Achen,
asleepin’ on his small office cot,
dreamin’ colorful dreams of naught,
while into town Dundee jockeyed
rolling in like a lonely tumbleweed.

Only 5-foot-4 and red peach fuzz
no one knew, or cared, who he was,
just a boy ridin’ on a high horse,
following a lonely, uncharted course,
horse stumbling down main street,
both lookin’ for somethin’ solid to eat.

Hot breakfast cost most of a quarter,
sleepy horse was stabled by a porter,
Dundee asked about a hotel room,
crawled into the white-sheet womb
snuggling in for a daylong’s rest,
sleepin’ ‘til sun was deep in the west. 

Rising in the sunset’s grayish gloom,
Dundee emerged from his warm tomb,
strolling to the nearby noisy saloon,
seeking dinner and a pretty tune,
perhaps a fast game of cards,
he saw one and gave his regards.

Slow Joe’s money pile mushroomed tall,
while other angry players cast a pall,
one in particular, Cheyenne Pete,
a loud gentleman most indiscreet
fingered his trigger and questioned why,
suggesting Dundee’s time might be nigh.

It’s a sad tale to recall, dear friend.
for Slow Joe Dundee it was the end,
No family, no friends to notify
no one around to bid a fond good-bye.
Pete dint know he shot his kid brother.

(Dundee’s sad horse went to another.)

(Note: Already appeared in Cowboy Poetry Press publication. This version has been partly edited by the author.)