Preen
C’mon, muster the pluck,
though the quills are slow
to give. If you tug
each plume just right, just
so, the pinch will sting
less pink. Think
how relieved you’ll be
to see your frowsty feathers
on the floor, dull
as orphanage laundry. Look, the bristles
lie listless, slack like a drowned bee’s feet—
they made a less
than fetching frock, no bath
could bring them back
to clean and soft.
Try this coat instead: it flashes
gold and red when the daylight
strikes. Forget
the jackdaw’s tale; unlike peacocks,
people want to see you happy,
it keeps their business
easy. So don’t sigh. Don’t peck
a blotchy wound into your chest.
Get dressed.