The Standoff
They all stood in the room,
staring
glaring
and sizing each other up.
they cautiously surveyed each other
pacing
prowling
and never taking their eyes off
anything.
There were three of them.
The first, Oliver, was a scrappy young lad;
fair hair, with a tinge of red,
a strong, broad body,
and a tendency to bully others
just a little bit.
He was brimming with confidence -
a little too much.
The second, simply called Blackey,
was younger.
His dark, rich features
made him handsome, if a little too thin.
He tried to look cocky and brave,
but his deep, charcoal eyes
showed fear.
Finally, there was the one called Saturday -
so named because that was the day
he had rode into town.
His hair was prematurely gray, and thick.
His eyes showed wisdom and steely courage
acquired through the scars of battle.
His were the eyes of the gunslinger -
steady, confident and unafraid.
they circled slowly -
Oliver, Blackey and Saturday;
Oliver and blackey flexed nervously
as Saturday patiently waited.
Saturday knew one of them would make the first move;
it was always that way.
Oliver twitched, gathered his courage, and lunged -
Saturday dropped him where he stood,
with a blinding right cross
seemingly without effort.
Blackey, after seeing this exhibition
ran frightened
like a scared kitten.
Saturday glared
just in case either of them had second thoughts.
And with a cloud of lint
and a hearty “MEEEEEOOOOWWW”
Saturday went to the watering hole to enjoy
a well-deserved
saucer of cream.
