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Vulture
He is scratching the sky with charcoal
shrieking his black words,
black as the crow or raven
with wings outstretched
catching a billow of breeze.
Below a hummingbird flutters
from flower to flower
then vanishes….
like the end of a rainbow.
But the vulture is diligent, persistent
circling the same spot over and over.
He is black as my poet’s beret,
as my wool pea coat,
but no,
more shocking black,
like a ghetto blaster suspended
in a turquoise sky.
This is a black I do not own,
it is a borrowed black,
as the media feeds my mind
each day
with its sick news.
-Terri Glass
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