my capes must’ve dulled-
they no longer flash
or catch the high sun
and the young señoritas
don’t know the dignity
of my final bow,
they only look on
as he enters
so foolish&young.
Does he know
that these hot afternoons
in the prime of his life
will never be as beautiful
as all the muscle
&grace that
he must put to the sword
to win their love?
And that even their love
is vain and cruel and
fleeting-
covetous only
of youth&death?
perhaps he will-
if he doesn’t die first.
Going for the Throat 