With Pedro Romero before the Bull

He’s not seen two decades of suns,
His skin is brown and blistered with memory;
Our companion nervously folds his fingers,
Pedro Romero buttons up his green pants—
Missed a brass button. We shake hands and ask him
“What do you think of the bulls?”
He responds, “They are I, and I they.”
He goes to the window—too young,
The cannonade of red sparks dance
Upon his fair face; he pulls on his high gloss boots.
“Picadors are not to be trifled with,” he says.
There is no fan, only sheets, chair, basin.
We sweat with him and ask his blessing,
He looks on us with clear eyes and dignified
Veneer, his hair wrought by holy humidity.
In the ring he is a ghost that
Bedevils bulls beautifully. In the room,
He is a ghost, set apart, across the shag carpet.

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