Widow Under Vulture Fire And Ire Poem by John Sensele

Circling and spying over aching heads
Vultures swoon and pick the flesh
Spotted from sunken skies on beds
Where distended bellies in a crèche

Bellies moan and groan
Under attack by bevies of vultures
Mourn
Lost sanity cultures

Hitherto quiet
Tranquil
On a diet
Administered with gusto on a quill

That strafing vultures who snatch a widow's
Car, house, kitchen utensils
Cash at the bank, a photograph on her bedroom's door
Pencils and stencils

Asking the widow why English dominated discourse
In her home when they visited from the village
Where three-course
Meals knew a siege

That vultures accused the widow
Of instigating by remote control
In every clean window
In their deceased brother's bedroom played a role

In his demise
Vultures accused the widow of engineering
In the prize
The widow extracted from the sneering

The widow's nose in her attitude
Reflected
In the ingratitude
Deflected

From their generosity
Which in the vultures' considered view
Existed not in their brother's home in the city
Vultures dreaded to visit because they knew

Not how the widow cruel
In demeanour
Filled with in her fuel
Of misdemeanor

Would deny vultures morsels of beef
Tea with rancid bread
Served with a stiff
Attitude ahead

Of a plethora of scorn
Heaped on vultures with a haughty gait
As the widow with her penchant for porn
An ingrained trait

In her faulty figure
Would inflict
On vultures with snigger
In every ounce of contempt the widow inserted in her relish for conflict.