How florid the feathers of his prose
as his quill feverishly flaps a wingstroke
to fluff up the stories he tries to compose,
all hatchlings half-formed in the yolk.
Cumbrous syllables slow every word
and stilted syntax is a roundabout migration
for a storyteller who employs every type of bird
to adorn a flightless imagination.
Nesting in language meant to aggrandize,
he wants his writing to be as the Roc,
yet he cannot fly, shorn and of small size—
neither Eagle nor Wren, Flamingo nor Hawk.
Taping purple peacock feathers to his brow
to distract from the small bird nesting there,
he is a Bantam who impresses others somehow
though too over-feathered to fly anywhere.