She is a tourist trap,
an artificial ghost town.
No mine disaster happened here,
just year after year
to make her face look more deserted.
She sets up saloons in her chest,
the ribcage her jail.
It's a popular place for a photo opportunity;
no one can seem to resist sticking their fists
through the bars,
guilty as charged for a flash and then
they're gone, headed now down
to the feet where she keeps
Names don't matter so much on the headstones,
just as long as they are covered
with the appearance of time,
perfectly chipped, pieces missing.
If you find the time,
visit the Old West Penny Arcade
where ten tickets will buy her eyes,
the top prize.
Head there now before they close;
you wouldn't want to be left
standing among abandoned facades
that block the silent sunset.