The Matador

Lucie Brock-Broido

The last I saw of him was on the final neurasthenic afternoon of his harmonica                                                                                                                                                                                                           When he lost his hair and said I did this to him with my grief,

As he pink halo of a monk's scalp began to shine up through this own.                                                                                                                                                                                                                            My grief can cause male pattern baldness in a man!

   This was his voyage, remember now, not mine.

In my own life's journey, I once found him, many laters, bewitched

Into a tiny matador (he wore a hat) on the folding table at a yard sale                                                                                                                                                                                                                             In a small New England town, holding out

   his midge of a scarf-ridiculous and red,

Now overwrought with aching from the wind in Spain,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                When was it that you say I loved?