The Eyes of the Matador

Growing up, I never could escape the eyes of the matador.
You know the one I mean
Vibrant and alive, on a back drop of black velvet
Following your every move.

Her house was ancient, crumbling
It reeked of herbs and magic
Not that I knew that then
two stories of endless stories

Running water not an option
the upstairs reserved for toiletries and chamber pots
a dark and turning staircase
with the matador at its center, always watching

I would wake from childhood slumber
his eyes flashing through my memory
permeating my now
as though keeping score of every bad thought, deed

Now grown, the house long ago burned
his eyes still watch me.
From the bedroom closet,
should I be fool enough to leave the door open

From the basement entrance
when we pile wood for the winter
there to remind me, should I dare fib
about the amount of sticks I have piled

He watches out there too
From the random mirrors in Walmart isles
From the top of the drive through menu
or hiding behind a pole, a "faux" streetlamp if you will.

I never could escape the eyes of the matador
Still can't to this day.
Your a fool if you think
he's not watching you too.

Victoria Slotto has us looking at symbolism in poetry over at MeetingTheBar. I'm sure the dVersePub is hopping, but never doubt there's room for you too!