Past Belle Star’s glazing,
he rides Eastcote
in a High Noon saddle,
his steed steaming off
that long gallop from Northolt.
The tin star gleams obviously
on his fringed shirt.
Dismounting,
he scans bauble filled
display cases
one finger tilting back
that prairie-worn Stetson.
A two pound coin brands hell
into his pocket seam -
he steps in.
Known to all,
The Two Quid Kid
guns this charity shop’s
economy section.
No one dives for cover
or finger-traces their belt.
Only finest cowboy cloth will do.
They disappoint,
‘Sorry Kid, no chaps today.’
Imaginary spurs glint
at the hem of his pinstripes.
Twirling himself and an
invisible six-shooter,
he clicks the ceiling
then high-tails it
back to the trail for another
unrelenting hot-shoe-shuffle
into the Field End sunset.
Jerry Pike
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