The Peacock

Strutting center stage, he relished all the approval and success.
Even if he’d imagined it, his worth was undisputed.
Flamboyancy of feathers cancels out all sheepishness.
Vanity is incessant, though its logic convoluted.
He never took into account the tininess of head,
Never looking down to see the ugliness of feet.
He puffed and preened and deemed himself to be a thoroughbred,
While in the yard most other fowl were plebeian and meek.
His obsession was to flaunt a rococó exquisiteness,
His aim was to entice, to be given due respect.
He disregarded limits to his existential radius,
Ignored the putrefaction of the dung in which he’d stepped.
One day a hungry hunter came to call, but didn’t see
The chickens or the turkeys or the geese in close proximity.
He only saw the alluring fan of colors on display, so
He leapt, determined that this prize would never get away.
Running round the yard they were a spectacle to see.
The encumbered one succumbed, weighted down with finery.
The victor donned a feather in his cap, which gave a dapper air
But best of all the peacock stew, most savory, most rare.