In this old Western you’re watching, you’ll see me

perform what stuntmen call ‘the Cowboy Leap’:

from the saloon’s first floor

into the flailing scrum below,

or down from a treacherous crouch

above the bank where I’m lying in wait for the hero. 

The trick in the Cowboy Leap is to hold back a little,

in velocity and arc, to calibrate the fall just enough

so as not to draw attention to oneself.

Instead of a low-slung gunbelt, my trousers sag,

dragged down by phone and wallet

as I join the posse or a gang. 

Cut to the saloon scene.

I’m at the next table, slightly out of focus. I gesture

at my companion with my fork

with just enough animation to show

that the extras in a scene must always agree—

it’s only the protagonists who differ. 

No dialogue for me, though; apparently,

this isn’t the movie of my life, after all.

​

a fine line, January 2026