I led a thirsty horse to an empty trough
in a town without a name. 
Wrapped the horse’s lead around a wooden pole
then stepped into the saloon.
Cobwebs and poker chips littered the room.
Overturned chairs and a broken piano left nothing for the imagination. 
Just another abandoned town with no story to tell.

I step behind the bar.
Old shelves that once supported society’s interests
now coated with distorting dust and disparity.
I spit to the floor adding my own interest
and reach for a bottle that sits on the shelf.
Labelled Inspiration it’s as empty as the trough outside.
Discarding the bottle I reach for another labelled Motivation.
It too is empty and no longer of use.
The bottle labelled Creativity I threw out the window.
It’s as empty as everything else in this town.
The one bottle I couldn’t find was Etc. 
Either it wasn’t delivered, or it was stolen.

The six-shooter strapped to my waist
Held only empty shells.
For six nights I shot at the moon 
as its reflection luminated the desert floor.
Never missing my target I put six new holes in it.
But now I’m out of bullets.

It’s wintertime in the desert
I taste the dust in the air
fragmented particles falling towards the ground
each claimed by gravity
will find death before the coming of dawn.  

My time in the saloon is done.
Nothing more to find here.
The dust that accumulates on my hat
shall be swept away as I cross the desert
in search of Etc. 
and a trough full of water. 


Edited with the assistance of Marie Metaphor Specht.
Image: Pure White Horse from FreePixel.com