The matador scowled at the back
of the bar, and sipped his beer.
He wanted to stab the people
who stared at him. His black tie,
his black suit didn’t shield him
from their eyes. He ordered
testicles, his unique entitlement,
and a carafe of deep red wine.
He flung his right arm around,
as if he was twirling his cape,
and declaimed a line of poetry,
then giggled, and apologised.
Tomorrow he was going out
against a bull from Miura. Where
was the flashbulb reception?
He fixed his eyes on a bearded
man who might be discussing him —
he sipped his wine, remembering
the white-socked bull in Toledo.
He could never be defeated.