Buzzards amuse me, so ugly, at least
to my eye, it’s a wonder they reproduce.
Yet these creatures that feed on death
are plentifully alive. Sometimes,
scads of them aloft.
to my eye, it’s a wonder they reproduce.
Yet these creatures that feed on death
are plentifully alive. Sometimes,
scads of them aloft.
It’s how they soar that really gets me,
the way they rock on the axis of their flight,
wings tipping up and down, like the arms of
a drunk struggling to walk a sidewalk seam
before a suspicious cop.
All this, in effortless defiance of gravity,
that ever-present, omnipotent force
that gives us jowls and causes our
breasts and buttocks to sag, and at
time’s end, draws us down into the earth.
Yes, gaze at them and marvel—there’s
likely one in view this very moment. So I
beg you—fling this book into the air!
let its fluttering pages be its feathers, then rise
in rebellion—against gravity’s dominion.
--
Alan Abrams has worked in motorcycle shops, construction sites, and architecture studios. He has lived in the heart of big cities, and in the boonies on unpaved roads. His poems and stories have been published in numerous literary journals and anthologies, including The Innisfree Poetry Journal, The Rat’s Ass Review, The Raven’s Perch, Bud and Branch (UK), LitBop, and many others. His poem “Aleinu,” published by Bourgeon, is nominated for the 2022 Pushcart Prize.