The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Shirley J. Brewer

Toreador

A moonless road outside Taos,
my silk attire
too rich for changing a flat.
This guy stops his Charger,
says Lady, let me help.

Everything simmers down to details—
my lips flutter over his red shirt.
He might have been a matador
flaunting his fire, the crowd
aroused and shouting olé.

I'd flirt with words
if only my jaws would move.
Joy mounts,
my mind whips up
Spanish omelet breakfasts in bed.

Will he wave his crimson capa
over my shrinking tire?
When he borrows my rusty jack,
my ruby stilettos gore the ground;
my mood deflates, my mouth a wound.

Before he leaves, he thrusts
out his hand for a hearty shake.
Oh, suitor of lights, devour me,
my silent lament,
as he drives off in a fiesta of dust.

My tongue unties, implores the night:
Ah, toreador of the West,
I miss your dusky eyes. Woo me
with your serpentina—
I dread Madrid without you.