GIRL OF PAMPLONA
We dined where Papa shined his cutlery
to rid the spots before a lunchtime fare
she dressed in red, her cloak no bull could see
and bound so tight so men could see her there.
Her mounds of flesh and cleavage turned each head
they didn't know to dine her she was theirs
and easy came her love--she made her bed
with matadors who had the proper stares.
And then she raced the bulls in drunken dance
down cobblestones and dared each one of them
til she was gored and blood was circumstance
and trampled in the dung and dusty grim.
She realized her dream to her last breath
and praised the bull who brought her to her death.
© Ron Wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet