His eyes are mirrors of stone, Never moving, never blinking, Cold, hard and precise, Two chips in a sheer rock face of controlled anticipation Waiting The sun is high, Casting a rich tapestry of light and shadow over the town, The main street empty and open, Save for the two who stand as sillhouettes in the dust Waiting Hands flexing towards holsters, But the silence is still preserved, Metal remains cold on leather, Tension building to a slow climax Waiting The code of tranquility is shattered, As hands move downwards and wrists flick upwards, That slow, practised style now in force, Fingers on triggers, but only one shot. And one body releases its grip on the steel, And one body slumps to the uncompromising dirt, And one body still stands Victorious