Inspiration

We waited at the Hemingway bar in Ronda    
   with the little bandit museum outside.

You joked I was a bad American  
  for not wanting to go to the bullfight.

There’s the kind with the stabbing at the end and the other
   where the bull doesn’t die.

You thought the second might get me to write.    
  I asked, Would there still be bullfights without tourists?

Holding a glass of whiskey, I remembered the New York Times 
  neutrally describing cultural value

and profit pitted against animal rights.    
  You bundled salami off a plate and sighed.

I am sorry I tried to help with your poems. Then, smiling,    
  I’d like to be worth your time.