Where is my place in the World?
Where is my home?
My place is a harvest
of everything listed.
No one place defines me, lest
l ever existed.
It was late afternoon, golden hour, and the town was aglow. We rolled into Tombstone, AZ with the tumbleweeds, and got out of town by morning, but not before taking a sun-soaked stroll down Allen Street past the O.K. Corral, tracing the footsteps of a by-gone time.
The Old West town was unusually quiet this day,
as if its residents were hiding out, bracing for yet another round of random violence, when claim jumpers, cattle rustlers, horse thieves, prostitutes, and gamblers challenged the moral fiber of a nascent society teetering between greatness and greed.
Despite the fear, there were some who dared to venture out…
and walk the dusty planks of a fragile peace, with their trusty sidearms at the ready.
Yet it was business as usual at the Bird Cage Theatre,
where wanton women plied their trade at twenty-three bucks a pop,
in their boudoir quarters…
…beyond the catwalk over the saloon,
while high-stakes poker flourished under the stage,
with a $1000 minimum buy-in.
But outside on the street, trouble was brewing.
Certainly, death was big business for the Tombstone Undertakers.
And on occasion, death was high entertainment for the townsfolk.
And as the sun sets on Tombstone…
we remember the lawlessness of the Wild, Wild West,
but we celebrate the triumph of a Town Too Tough to Die…
…a worthy consideration while we soaked away the stress in a hot spring along the Rio Grande the following day in Truth or Consequences, NM.