Napoem9 – Vulture

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He hangs there, long skinny arm-wings draped
over the sky, coat of feathers flung behind,
the tips struck white-blind in the sun.
With that little pink head, bags under the eyes,
and slightly hooked beak, he captures the perfect balance
between debauched avidity and supercilious boredom
of Uncle Charlie, Thanksgiving Day. Any minute, he’ll land
beside the beast, poke a haunch or breast, say
I think it’s ‘bout done, care to join me?

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