Humidity hangs

I want to strut like a cowboy. Maybe I'll kick open a door, have it swivel back and on it's loose hinge and hasp get stuck ajar. I don't want to have a slack-jaw, I'll have a sure jaw, swift to mark my gritty wit. I'll wear the most earthy rust-colored cowhide trenchcoat. Whip whip, as I strut I'll throw the cape-like tail at startling intervals to reveal the sturdiest and most sable boots. The spurs will glint in the tavern light, and the sots at their drink will be as the most servile of stabled horses as they begin to stare from behind the curve of their mugs. Their sips will be stifled. They will hide in the shadow of their stetsons. All will be quieter than the murmurs in old city alleyways.

I will lift my hat, set it on the counter. I'll turn to face the craven crowd, and with my rough hand bring my hat back upon my head. Then the only sounds will be the plod of my boots, out into the desert night.