Vultures of the Most Despicable Kind

A free-verse poem about vultures.

Vultures always seem to spot
the weakest of their prey,
the old and infirm,
the diseased, injured, and lame –
those who are not long more
for this world.

The vultures circle overhead
or land close by … waiting,
waiting, anticipating a death,
hoping for the opportunity
to feast on the remains.

The most despicable such
vultures are those relatives,
say a long-absent cousin,
who appears and suddenly becomes
attentive to the needs
of a wealthier elderly relative
now that they’ve grown sick
and mentally unsound
from decline and failing health,
hoping to extract money or property
as their unholy reward.

Like all vultures, the human kind
are ugly, unwanted interlopers
attending the end of a life
just to feed on the remains
without shame or conscience.



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