A Mime Dressed As A Matador '98

A mime dressed
as a matador sits
at an outdoor cafe in Madrid
He puffs
on a cigarette stuck
in a holder, the kind
that used to be
smoked by the rich
His legs are
crossed while his left hand
caresses a coffee cup perched
on the table before him
A newspaper flaps, trapped under
the saucer, a bird lifts off
from a church on the square.

A bulge within his neck starts to
move. It is a severed hand.
It grabs at his skeleton inside
his skin, grasps at his organs
through bones.

All the while, the mask of the man
stares, placid, unmoving, and blank.

I am a medium-sized dog
under a neighboring table.