Matador

A trim man, dressed as a matador, all silk and 

brocade, red and gold and black, hat and cape and 

slippers, walks out of an alleyway, stepping in line 

behind my sister and me, two Kentucky girls on 

Fifth Avenue, as we walk by stores we can’t afford.

My sister’s shorts show off her long legs, her ponytail 

whipping, and I struggle to keep up, my frizzy 

hair a fly-away affair. 

The matador remains in our footsteps.

A beggar with good aim spits in our path, 

young women with endless credit brush past us, 

a teen with tiny glasses shoves flyers in our faces. 

Still the matador remains in our footsteps. 

He gets one of my sister’s brilliant smiles and I get 

a look at him, his hair covered with black shoe 

polish, his face a mess of rheum and clay, his 

epaulettes stapled to his jacket like a dress made 

last-minute for a high school play. He whispers sisters

(yes he sees it but I don’t have her sapphire eyes).  

He’s standing behind us.. 

I pull at one of his loose jacket threads and he 

melts, puddling into a mass over his 

slippers. My sister stops to peer at the matador 

mess and me. A bull turns down the street and 

strides towards us, mild and curious. He pauses

and paws at the pile, giving my sister

a Mona Lisa smile.