I name my hurricane ‘Vulture’ after myself
in blatant defiance of the World Meteorological
Organization’s aim to divide the dwindling spoils
between the sheltering flies and me. I glimpse
the mud hollow below. There’s equality in a
tremulous storm. Mansions crumble, rubbles
alongside dumpsters long used to the insult.
My neck is sore, stiffened by the barren pouch
long used as a carrion cage. My back, creased;
legs, cramped. Attempts to sleep on the wooden
skids beneath what was once a confident overpass,
impossible. I’d wished to shed my skin rattlesnake-style
in the office of a Fortune 500 crypto miner, enjoy
what’s left of his caviar, become that crazed fool
stumbling through his temperature-controlled larder.
Now that I’ve scavenged the same bones in the same
detritus, my dreams unfulfilled, can I evolve my
troublesome past? If wishes had wings.