Like the best ballplayers,
they study percentages,
whether the bulls
buck right or left,
ogling them hawklike
sometimes for years
before they draw
they hope the meanest and wrap
their gloved hand tight with rope.
Though they try to block him out
for better concentration,
Lane's ever in the back
of their mind, Lane Frost,
whom many consider
the best who ever rode
till his last bull
gored his sternum
and snuffed out his life.
They say their sport's addictive,
like the devil
to the bluesman,
that they're all but dead
in the bleak, seemingly
endless intervals
between those electric
eight-second Texas Two-Steps
with the Reaper.
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