The Morgue

Vulture.

Favorite pet

of the sky man.

Never famished

for flesh

delivered fresh

by weapons,

contagions,

crashing mishaps.

In a kettle I fly.

Meeting committees

as I land.

Do not stand

too close to me.

Warning,

my proximity

is deadly.

Mothers and sons.

Cancers and guns.

Jesus Christ,

the ingenuity.

Vampires

are not the

only coffins breed.

Bloodthirsty yes

but at the least,

they coyly

inquire as they

request entry.

These scavengers

extol the

battlefield

conquest.

Soldiers trek home.

Find an arsonist

for the bridge.

No time to

shovel the graves

as the buzzards

congregate.

Evacuate

the premises.

Bow your head.

Give thanks.

For the stagnant

feast begins.

Those next in

the pecking order.