Rodeo Bear
by Jack Fritscher
Looking into a cowboy fella’s face
bear-to-bear, you can read him complete:
how hard his Levi-thighs feel;
how his crotch rides in rough-out chaps;
how his salt-sweat gloves taste
when he bites the leather fuckfinger
in his strong white teeth
to pull the glove off his hand;
how rough his hands feel,
rolling his own,
every one of his
wily cowboy glances
knows the ropes,
quick with knots,
since he was his daddy’s cub
in muddy boots with undershot heels;
what he smokes, chews, snorts, drinks;
how his bowed legs
stance for a piss in a dusty corral;
what kind of horse cock
he raises for stud;
how much he knows firsthand
about arm’s-length insemination,
about castration of big bull nuts
and stallion balls,
about branding irons and guns and
trucks and traps and skinning bear;
what his armpits, and butt, and rosewater hair,
smell like, before, and after,
his bunkhouse hose down;
how his feet set in his
dirty cowboy boots;
how cut, or uncut,
shows in the squint and look
of his cowboy eye,
the devil with blue eyes
and blue jeans,
just sizing you up, rodeo-style,
mano-a-mano.
Diving in for a kiss.
Whoopy-tee-yi-yo!
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