An Evening with a "Midnight Cowboy"

Moldy  
Must—  
Permeating the jovial air of the  
eight  
decade old  
brick  
barracks.  
The sun’s begun to set to the west of wintry north chicago,  
casting the clouds  
in light that  
renders in variegated  
hues-  
amorphous,  
cotton  
candy
clouds.  
Our cowboy,  
outfitted in his pristine  
Cracker Jack Whites  
turns from his window,  
sauntering down the passageway.  
a crowd’s congregated in the head,  
his buddy from brooklyn’s getting  
into it  
with a  
pugnacious  
peon from Boston.  
the latter indicates inebriation,  
telegraphing intoxication in  
sloppy slugs.  
And as the onlookers jeer in  
slurred speech,  
Brooklyn dips  
pulls back  
lines up a clean shot and  
Lets  
it  
     fly.  
Boston’s head spins  
to the left,  
The sanguine  
swing  
slings  
a salve of  
blood and  
spittle about the  
space.  
the gathered begin to disperse and go  
about their evening routines;  all our lone  
Protagonist thinks of is  
his lucky cigarette  
waiting,  
unsmoked in a  
desk drawer  
and,  
his walk through the incisive evening wind to  
the smoke  
pit.