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.