Poem #46

Let me tell you my origin story;

Roll back your stone imagination

And grant access to this: a true Rory

Myth, the keystone to my creation.

We must toddle through time back eighteen years,

Before making swift haste to Whipsnade Zoo;

A peacock stalks my younger self, then rears

Its gross blue throat, pouncing as if to screw.

All was flurry! All was feathers! But worst

Those dozen eyes, fixed in plummage like dyes!

Though my Dad roughed the bird, young me was curst:

A child I fell, ornithophobic I rise.

Last year, at length, I conquered the pigeon;

Perhaps, one day, I’ll manage the chicken.

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