There Is A Bison In The Front Yard

Ancient rhinoceros of our plains,
one solitary bull shuffles
and snuffles through autumn grasses.
Mahogany mane surrounds a neckless horned head,
and drapes humped shoulders, carpets upper front legs.
There the robe ends, exposing naked buttocks,
slender ankles, delicate hooves.
Barely balancing a bow-legged bulk,
he precisely scratches behind one ear with a dainty hoof,
and gives an insouciant tail flip.

Returns to tearing grass, snort blowing,
a dark, wet tongue visible.
Urine turns on like a spigot
beneath the great barrel chest.
Pauses in meandering grazing,
minotaur head down,
curved and pointed horns forward,
stands stolid and masticates, re-chews,
grinding, beard bobbing.
Eyes closed in meditation or appreciation.

Lowers his two thousand pounds slowly
and carefully to the ground to recline in the sun,
flanks and hump coffee-bean-brown, hot and steaming.
Sways gently with each breath,
and nods off, jaws still.

The genocide of these land whales’ ancestors
by my ancestors, seems not to bother this one.
He slumbers safely in the front yard of the hotel,
ignoring tourists and poets.