It was never as if you asked for it,
no, not really anyhow.
Sure, you wanted the attention,
perhaps a little love to
tide you over through the night.
Sure, sure, who doesn’t?
But not like this.
No one ever asked for this.

It is sitting next to a vulture,
you see them, you know them,
all dressed in skirts and high, high heels,
all of them in long legs,
all of them in soft smiles.
You can always find something
for them to have going good.
A nice laugh, eyes,
the way they hold their drink.
There’s always something,
a starting point to go off of.
From there it’s game over,
it’s the bottom of the ninth
and you’re striking out.
All they need to do is wait, circling,
sitting there, smiling with sharp teeth.

It is something simply not to
fall in love with every woman
you meet.

Often, we take care of the
death ourselves.
These women needn’t
get their hands *****.
Maimed and tortured
in the backs of bars,
bedrooms, telephone booths.
Beautiful little vultures,
do you see how they circle overhead?
winking, blowing kisses.

it was never as if you asked for it,
all of it part of a plan, an organized death;
carrion for the scavengers.
You think you have it good,
you smile along with it all.
Gripped deep into that flesh,
breaking bones, ventricles,
talons sinking into clutched skin.
And we just keep on smiling;
clueless, eager.