That’s what the citizens of the small
Alaskan town named him when he stood
drunk and slightly knock-kneed in the pub’s
courtyard after eating too many fermented crabapples.
His inclined head drooping under the weight
of his antlers. In shapes of plates and bowls,
they tilt when he turns his long face sideways.
The flap swaying under his throat.
All eighteen hundred pounds of him, cinnamon-colored
and sedentary against the dusk,
the hairy shoulder hump, and the huge cupped ears.
Room for wildness here,
from uncultivated land to conversations
unrestrained after having a few
(Heck, even the wild beast
got drunk!)
The men feel a safe alliance in his slow lounging.
Then a sudden snort through his blunt snout,
as if to say, I’ll take my leave.
His enormous backside to them now,
and his hooves clop on the pavement
in his slow-paced exit toward home.