The Bull

The sun is hot.
It drives down onto my smooth, gleaming coat.
He steps onto the field.
He looks dashing,
His black suit beautifully embroidered
With slick lies and false diamonds.

The crowd roars in delight
As his feet are cushioned by the sand
With every flat-footed step.
They wave and cheer for him.
They spit and curse at me.
He holds his arms up in victory.

Silence falls.
He stands at the ready.
A distant quiver in the red cloth
I bolt from one edge of the stadium to the other,
The power in my legs urging me to fell him
Like a sapling to a great axe.

The red disappears and the crowd cheers.
I am a fallen jester
Being pelted with apple cores and gum wrappers.
He laughs and winks
Thinking his quiet smirk will distract me;
He is not safe.

I lock into his eyes,
No more do I see his flashy red cape,
I see into his faults
I aim my horns towards his heart
A rush of wind,
Nothing.

I walk proudly with my trophy.
I parade the circumference of my ring,
My triumph held high for patrons to ogle.
I am the victor today,
and he shall stay mounted on my horns,
Which shall remain painted red.