The End of Glory

Glazed bloodshot eyes, a snort and a bellow
He sways unsteadily from side to side
And with difficulty raises his stocky head.
There is still a spark of defiance in the eyes
Of a proud fighter facing the darkness.

Too many jabs and blows have taken their toll.
Give it up, I pray, unwilling to wreak more damage.
But he was bred for the battle and the challenge,
A fading remnant of a waning era
Who knows only death or glory.

He snorts again and steadies himself for his move.
I shift the cloth and wait, poised to react.
The bullfighter holds out his glass, “another” he slurs.
And I pour a generous measure, inflicting
One more piercing blow to his thick old hide.