the last bullfighter
walking alone into the ring,
stamping ground
of uncompromising traffic,
northbound off the mighty Tweed River
a water dragon sat
upon the hot tarmac
body across the white-dotted line
flaring its frilly pink appendage
like a cape
at oncoming traffic
these huge, stainless-steel cannonballs,
complements of human creation
claws working the plain
in a half-baked flamenco
it obviously knows the nature of these soulless beasts
leaping into harm’s way
without even a picador to assist
just a loaded gas tank in the morning sun
with no time for
mindless animals on wheels
confessions of a reptile,
last stand of the matador