The Matador, No Less
Sometimes the earth falls flat on its face
splattering against our senses like
a call to prayer in a city
that can’t be bothered to watch.
Goddamn how I wish we could all stand awake
until the sun rises over the water
spilling like an oiled spring
that rings perfectly, just right.
I hate the way my hair falls in this mess
like a Vidal metaphor that needs a trim
and a cigarette on the front stoop
where the stone is cool.
