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, stepping over the
Vanquished to
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.