Poetry: Echosightings Vol II, ONCE WAS A MATADOR

A makeshift stool
his throne
His domain a
Blighted corner of
otherwise respectable
Suburbia
Faded red shirt 
open to the khaki-clad
Waist
Flapping like a flag on a
forgotten outpost
He sits
staring intently at
his dick
Upon which
a sterling reputation
had been built
La espada de la noche
Responsible for many
Kills
Now there's no adulation
No roses thrown
A loosely buckled belt and
the collected sweat of
Smeared palms
are the only rings
He knows
He's won a few
Battles over time
But 
The war's long been
decided