He is the VII in a dynasty stretching
nearly nine decades—animate emblem
of touchdowns and tackles, he exudes
college nostalgia to the hundreds
of thousands of fans he yearly draws
to gaze upon his regalia: black stripes
adorning a quadrupedal coat.
But you glean signs more subtle than
coloration—simply evolution’s solution
for ambushing unwary ungulates in
Asia’s jungles—being the faceless
handful behind his fame who knows
the moods betrayed by tail’s swish
side-to-side, ears upright or twisted flat.
The game-goers flock to his enclosure,
where, kingly with stuccoed arches
and a campanile, they visit him as part
of the gameday’s pomp as he lazes
alongside his stream or patrols
the waterfall and fallen logs, a net
of stainless-steel canopying his territory.
Yet in early morning and at day’s end,
in the seclusion of his night house,
you witness him as less a symbol
or king and more as ward and patient—
His claws and brawn cannot escape
your wariness, but he permits you
to glimpse a side to him not unlike
a housecat, as he uses his rasp-rough
tongue to groom himself or to lick
frozen goat’s milk, a perception quickly
dispelled with a toothy yawn or claws
extended for a sharpening scratch.
But whether he’s fierce or gentle,
you never fail him: braving even
a hurricane, you come in each day
to see that he’s fed and has an appetite,
observing the smoothness of his gait,
the small fluctuations in his weight,
seizing every chance to glimpse his teeth
through the fence, the smell of his breath
on your face decoding his health.
Taken in as mascot monarch, you escorted
him here from Florida, hoping for him
a better life and spoiling him weekly
with oxtails. Coming to greet you
at the fence, he chuffs at you, perhaps
for a second forgetting for your sake
that he remains predator and prowler.
