How Royally Avant-Garde Am I? Poem by Mark Heathcote

Don't tell me it isn't so—
as if I needn't ever know?

There's a peahen at the centre
of every pert-peacocks breast
who preempts a secret willingness
to sit upon a feathered nest.

Don't tell me it isn't so—
as if I needn't ever know?

She'll be his north and south
-his east and west
but as soon as
the pendulum begins its full
swing-slowing turn into rest.

He'll be off-off like a songbird
with his soul soaring high.
Off singing like a hummingbird
how royally Avant-garde am I?