Blood of Pamplona

BLOOD 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