Black Vultures

Black vultures, low and circling,
the stubby versions
that double as shadowy cousins
to birds of prey,
make us want to gather together,

perhaps to pray
for all things small, sick or wounded,
as well as all
afraid as they wait upon death
or on being eaten.

On the other hand, why do we care?
No one delivers us from death.
As for resurrection,
what satisfaction is there in being waked
to what we are?

We've experienced that far too often.

And if we arise something else,
who is to say
that what we've become will be better?
Or that living every day forever
might be a bore.

Listen, Buzzard, when you come to eat me,
strip clean my bones,
leave nothing to be reconstructed
except, perhaps, a poem
to which somebody, now and then,
might choose to listen.