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Vultures of Tuckahoe

Written by Robert A. Geise


They glide easily,
skim the ceiling of heavy rain clouds
almost ripe enough to loose their burden.

They amass over the town gradually,
two or three arcing
into a dozen,
then a dozen more
that eventually swirl into black feathered pinwheels,
dizzying cogs in a darkening machine.

Rose Caruso and her nose
hurry into the bank,
grasping the flowered plastic kerchief
beneath her chin.
She cashes a check
for small bills only.
David Caldwell collapses out of his Cherokee,
scratches his belly,
pulls up his drawers
and meanders into the Junction
for Taylor pork roll on a Kaiser
and some burnt afternoon coffee.
Melvin Spitzer rides his rusting bicycle
up Route 50 in search of metal, glass, plastic.
He passes the Tuckahoe Queen,
perhaps for the ten thousandth time,
on his way to Harry and Louise’s on Main Street,
though Harry’s gone now.
Louise will have her recycling out early today
for pickup tomorrow morning.
Mel knows that Ginger’s fed well
and will add her cans to his collection.

Sarah Bogart,
twenty-eight and a half months from retirement,
walks her own baby carefully
on Ocean Road,
leering skyward suspiciously.
They’ll scoop Gitsy up and away
if she turns her back for a moment;
she knows it.
Let it rain, she thinks,
get them out of here.
She recalled nightmares
from her childhood
in which a menacing man,
huge in a black cape and goggles,
swooped from the air
as a raptor out of the same dark sky
and grabbed her from the safety
of her own family's farm.
She hung upside down
as her parents grew smaller, lower.
One waved, she thought,
before they disappeared from view.



© 2008 Robert A. Geise. Please don't steal my poem. Thanks.

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