Eight seconds, they told me. Just hold
on for eight seconds and you’re gold.
When I end up on the ground, covered
in sandy dust, I figure it’s just the same.
I count the squares in the grid above me,
because everyone is in slow motion.
I don’t get past eight before they haul
me up and tell me I’m going to live.
I could have told them that. The bull
stares me down while I hobble back.
He’s won this time, but I’ll get my eight
seconds. Now, it’s personal.
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