In the mind's eye
there hovers a vision of Clint Eastwood
riding into golden sunset
after he cleaned the town
of dirty old rats,
victorious, and yet,
looking a little forlorn,
lost, and a bit sad.
His gaze wanders
first to the east, and then,
to the west;
the lines on his face
seem to ask
now this job is done
where should I head next?
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