Dry man, parched man, eyes of lead.
Mud creek skin slick with sweat.
Hair the color of burned bones
hangs thin and limp against his skull.

He wears time like a grandfather
while the sun hammers down like hot iron.

A house stands in ruin, the door is painted red.
Women wait by the door, waiting for a man like him.
One is a year past pretty, her smile is drawn on.
One is a baby wearing her sister's clothes.

The Last Cowboy rides up on the back of a carrion crow.
He tips his hat and says, "Howdy, Ma'am. Howdy, Miss."
Takes their coin and takes them to bed,
in the morning he rides off again.

The boy will grow strong and tall
like desert grass, he'll welcome the fire.
It sets things to right, makes the world clean again.

A man carried cards across the desert to duel with Death.
Once, twice he won. The third time, a draw.
He carries nine swords in eight sheaths.
He drinks wine from an eyesocket.
His laugh is the howl of Coyote, the caw of Raven.

Blue smoke hung in the hair like angel wings.
Saguaro broke ground with the gun barrel of a dead man.
He would cry but there's no water left in him.