I’m sick and tired 

of those damn turkey vultures

circling overhead.

I should be flattered by their attention,

but I’m not feeling the love.

I’m a bicycle-riding barbecue buffet to them,

a juicy steak, hamburger, and pork chop

wrapped up and ready for the feast.

I shake my fist,

don’t get too greedy, you ugly bastards,

wait your turn.

The maggots, worms and crows

called dibs on my carcass before you,

and they don’t like line jumpers.

I’m no roadkill on the side of an interstate.

My muscles ripple and flex

with undeniable strength and durability,

my skin shines and sweats

the good sweat,

salty and spicy like me.

Death will come back,

flying tighter loops overhead

but before the vultures sink

their talons into my putrid flesh

I want to publish 10,000 poems,

ride my bicycle 100,000 miles,

make love to my wife 1,000,000 times.

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