Bald heads plunged into carcass,
cackling rattling hissing cacophony.
Gray vultures surge like hulked-up
maggots over others’ backs.
Meager leavings. Fringes of freckles on the edges of the hide.

Standing to the side with flesh-red head,
you come on tall, unassuming, do not push your way. One could say you’re too polite.
If you delay opening your beak to eat,
you detract from the friendly
fracas of that pack.

What is it like to be seated
last at the table? I could never be.

Faces in their places,
Uncle Al’s beak a hulk,
but minute compared to yours.
Nana with a beak, mother too,
hates hers, Dad’s Irish askew.

Eating in my own veldt,
Nana about to serve.
Noses swarm braciole leeching
mozzarella garlic pepper bread crumbs
basil and a hint of peppermint leaf
thrown into her Bianco tomato stew.
I bulk up, hammering on my plate,
waving my fork, upsetting the glass of vino
next to me. “Me first Nana!”
Mangia tutti bambina!
“More pecorino for me Nana, grate more!”

And you waiting for a scrap of giraffe