Ghost Town

The death of ambition,
or ammunition, at least,
the ghost town is riddled
with doubts, whisky and woodworm.

Apart from a passing posse,
lost in the second reel,
and the barcarole of rats,
its windows are widowed.

If it were a mouth
it would be a harmonica,
all gums, where the drunk dentist
had pulled the last loose tooth

and vamoosed with the town
noose, making for San Something
with his rusty pliers.
No echo echoes:

this is the town where the railroad
ran out of platform,
where the sleepers lie
askew. Or sprawl

under the sun's fat pox,
bleeding shadow,
and even the whippoorwill
comforts the quiet coyote.

From Robinson Crusoe's Bank Holiday Monday