Vultures in my living room . . .
Famished, suavely ruthless
They tear flesh off bones,
Circle,stalk, before they swoop.
They wait with bated breath
For a loss, a soul-searing cry.
Drooling, they pounce,
Right for the entrails, the gluttons.
Eager ears tuned in for foul intent,
Thirsty beaks scouring for sordid crumbs
Predator-eyes zooming in to track a tear,
Trace the grooves of a grief-wrought grimace.
And I…, as I revel in the postmortem
Blood drips on my talons and my beak.