The Feathered Hat
I worry myself into a grisly stew
over a qualification in teaching,
because my stringing words together
like a popcorn necklace, doesn’t pay.
Rory tells me an old Chinese proverb:
He with the most feathers in his hat
gets a sore neck
and I think I must want a hat made
of feathers – a peacock’s brilliant green
with their centred orange suns that dance
as my head moves, like seaweed in a swell,
if only my neck, wrung like a chicken’s who just
will not lay, could hold the darn thing up.