There are vultures on the phoneline
at the corner of Harlem and Hopeful.
I think they must be waiting for something because they are always there.
I once heard they wait for fairies;
I once heard they wait for death.
It seems they never soar;
they flap their wings but never fly;
they turn their beaks noiselessly.
Sometimes, during lightning storms, I stand in the street and watch them die.
I think they are the ugliest birds
(they are always scowling discontent) and
I only hope they regrow their feathers.
I only wonder, what holds them back?