The Peacock don’t do no dancing
The Peacock chose each step
the width of its gait and turn of its foot
mapped in thought
Pondered, planned then placed
Executed with precision as
a conscious claw carved
its sculpted mullet
It lurked socially of an evening
Opting for sweet and sober
Pecking at dry roasted peanuts
and the company of strangers
Scoffing at those who drank from ponds
and coughing politely
It never spread its wings in public
They were for show
It wrote poetry to woo the birds
Scratching the ground as faux tears
flowed into dirt
Sometimes it believed it's own lies
and wept at the beauty of it's plumes
and ornate scribblings
Then composed itself and
scrubbed under its claws
Twice
Never did it flock with the crows
The dirty birds that crowed out loud
Squawking thought and fighting
in pubs or parks
But circled the edges
eyes flitting for mirrors or the female
of the species
The peacock struts its life
but certainly don't dance