Estate Sale
 
Like winged vultures 
drawn by the stench 
of smoldering carrion, 
 
we’ve come to satisfy 
our lust for 
more, more, more.
 
unlike these black-winged 
marauders of the sky,
whose manners are

somewhat suspect, 
 
we follow a more civilized 
ritual of taking numbers,
and wait our turn to enter this 
 
sacred house of the dead. 
 
i follow the rush to the 
room with books
where pushy re-sellers perch,

shoulder to shoulder, 
before the shelves
in their primitive craving

for the steaming vital organs— 
 
signed first-editions, 
dust covers mercifully intact—
 
a Hemingway—
Green Hills of Africa— 
 
(oh, most happy day). 
 
appetites sated, the lions lick their chops
and saunter off.
next the squabbling hyenas, 
angry at the delay, move in,
while the vultures circle overhead,
desperate for an overlooked morsel.

finally it is my turn, 
 and i finger the bony carcass 
hoping to discover the profession, 
the hobbies, and the education 
of the person who sat next the window 
 
to catch the light.