#5: Chekhov's Pun

It hangs on the wall like the ominous leer
of Billy Big Bass, like the dead head of a deer,
some ostentatiously antlered caribou
that, shotgun held low like a gift, you
stalked through a snow-crusted Finnish wood
for three days, your Gortex hood
freezing about your ears in stiff clefts
like a conch shell; a shift left
into a clearing, you took your shot

and though it seemed like triumph, now you've got
it mounted on a plaque with name, year,
when you step back, take stock - it looks like reindeer.