120. hoops of ages
many colored, matador made,
diamonds, death, liquor, fame —
when the bull had had its way
matador, mostly, was afraid
matador mouse tries his trade
in the alleys, and by-ways,
or the floorboards if that’s where
the cockroaches come to square
amber, spy, nymph, and elf
are the names of some he’s killed —
this, although, is not on them,
but the one he didn’t get
stir fry steve (that’s his name),
wasn’t built for cock-fighting,
he was gentle, even sweet
(sure he scuttled, but discreetly)
the syndicate (we’ll call it that),
run by spiders and some rats,
scooped him up for their graft
in a defunct cockroach trap
when he’d come back to his sense,
he was pressed into a pen,
fed a special protein sludge
filled with fake testosterone
the date was set for the match —
friday (but, rats can’t count) —
stir fry steve was harnessed, dragged,
by a vole with two eye-patches
matador mouse was in the ring,
built on boxes back-facing —
he was slapping, bowing, smoking,
at a crowd of clapping rodents
so, this steve was shoved in that,
showed a bright red matchstick back,
made to mean he must attack,
and then by toothpicks be in-stabbed
matador mouse was proud and pleasing,
twitching, twirling all his whiskers,
turned the target front to back,
taunted, “let’s get on with it”
stir fry couldn’t help himself,
they’d filled his blood with chemicals,
then, at right, at the last second,
that he had wings, he remembered
as he flew, the mouse now felt
the fear he had in bugs instilled —
the rats, who don’t accept a loser,
charged, and tore the mouse to pieces