Poem: Pavonine

A poem about peacocks. Well, one in particular.

There isn’t much to say.
There isn’t really a relationship.
He comes to town and flashes his feathers, and almost everyone’s in awe.
But I guess I’m not. I stand by the door and make jokes.
Money is just something we kinda need, pesky hindrance —
not the trophy that lets people know you could win lots of trophies,
could change the rules of the game so that the person with the most trophies
wins another trophy. I find such plumage no longer beautiful —
and that makes me a challenge…to the authority, to this
new best way of living; to the sequence
that ranks achievements solely on monetary value.

If there’s no one dazzled by the iridescent flourish,
is the peacock even beautiful?

Could it be that such an odd bird is made to seem rather ridiculous?