If I were a bull, I’d have to decide between focusing on a target
and charging everything that moves. Either way, I’d get hooked 

behind the shoulder and brought to my knees in front of everyone. 
Spain is never the Spain you imagine. In the arena, picadors do prep work 

and we get bored. But here comes the Butcher of Small Complaints;
spectacles always seem to draw assassins. We peer at the scuffle 

through opera glasses and ogle it with our phones. Let’s face it: 
we stare down the lens of whatever at whatever’s on display. 

Above all, we’re drawn to the gore of the present. We want the estocada, 
the death blow and difficult exit. Banderilleros toss darts into the bull’s back;

flowers for the matador, while the body’s dragged from the ring. 
You wear a muleta as a little retro jacket; we pour one out for the bull.