Pinion
You found a peacock’s feather,lying in the lane,
and brought it home to me
clutched behind you as a surprise.
It seemed the ideal gift,
I said, for a poet
whose major subject is himself,
and often at unlikely length.
I keep it on my desk now,
a giant undipped quill,
its one great quizzical eye
always in the corner of mine,
a reminder of your faith
in my self-absorption.
It keeps me grounded
on mornings when I’d rather fly.
