Matador

The city stifles me
like a clingy lover
trying to sap my vital energies.

I need to be among maple trees,
tall oaks and whatever else
grows on its own accord.

There are too many angry voices in these streets,
too many judgments in my mind’s pathways,
too many “too many’s”
and not enough peace.

Grappling with the need to create
as creation grapples with my soul,
two bulls with horns locked –
neither moving, tension high –
and I like a matador
sitting in the stands,
watching the struggle,
knowing its futility,
waiting for them to let go.