The rig was an antique.
Leather, worn and shiny gleamed
the cracks, he said, gave them character
yellowed ivory grips, dark and mystical
the metal shone under the coat of oil
This was a weapon that had seen use
on some dusty street, some open range
they spoke of adventure, danger, courage
and death; ever present destruction.
He claimed that they had once
been worn by a notorious gunfighter
more likely, some Quaker with a collection
but, they themselves, were real.
As a boy, visions of gunfights, black hats
daring do by men of legend and myth
he also claimed he had owned the horse
the one that spoke on television.
Looking back, I smile in memory
I was impressed as a child
but, now, sounded like so much
horse apples to me.
mmmmm nearly as bad as english slang – but smellier! 
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