"when I buried hate
and then forgave
a poem grew
around the grave"


The old man appeared surly, because he WAS surly. He spent the latter part of the day as he had it's commencement, trying to fit in.

Wilbur was a town much like any other. It had once been a destination. Now it was a way to another way. Viewed from an elevated pass, it was not unlike a medical sketch of the human heart. An arterial way in, a mixing chamber .. and a road out. As with any heart, women were found there. But that's another story.

The man studied the faces of the men who drank with him. A shot glass was swallowed by his hand before his throat made sure. Cigar smoke hung heavy, and a card game pitched and rolled around the workings of his ear. All his work was done a town ago. The spoils lay in a bag by his feet under the table. Every now and then, when it took his fancy to do so, he felt down for his holster. It was a cold day in a God forsaken town, but the still warm barrel bestowed a peace on him.

The old man had wounds. The kind only whiskey could cauterise. His scars visible only to the workings of his mind. He was the second to the last one born, toiling for food on his daddy's farm, scratching an existence from dust and hopelessness.

A blacksmith will impart wisdom to a man, if you are fortunate enough to know one of even temper. Metal is very much like character. Some wilt in the furnace of tribulation, some are made stronger. Some, it turns out, are even remade by terrible pain.

The old man's story would be told in the newspapers and wanted signs. In the throats of story tellers and in the cautionary sermons of learned men. But the true nature of his business was between him and his father. He didn't rob that bank and kill those men to take something. He was giving something away.

His name.