Spaghetti

The stranger at the gate stops,
adjusts his wilting hat brim,
not posing but composed: a

still-life, red complected,
hands hard, worn like boot-
heels. Smoke from a cheroot

rises, narrowing his vision,
but the eyes are like capers
black and dead as a doll's,

bottomless, unfathomed. The
dull thud of casement windows
coming to on cracked sills

heralds him, the small clicks
of cocked guns, curtains drawn.
The gate yawns. A jangle of spurs.