two vultures on the side of the road

you over hear two vultures
talking to one another
on the side of the road.
they sit in the shade,
waiting, waiting, as
they do, with the patience
of Job. I don't know
Henry, the wife says.
the boy just isn't eating
right. he hates red meat.
it's this younger
generation, Martha, he
says. they all want
to eat vegetables,
soy, hummus and what not.
they are so health conscious.
that whole save the world
thing, he says,
shooing a fly away
from his beak with a
black oily wing.
but this is what we do,
she says, exasperated,
watching the cars roll
by. we are the original
recyclers, we are the leave
nothing to waste kings
and queens of nature.
I know, Henry says, what
are you gonna do? we
are living compost piles,
and we have a son
that wants to eat
carrots and string beans.
it's a shame, especially
with the volume of
cars out here now in
the middle of nowhere.
I think I've gained
five pounds this week alone
from so much eating.
he doesn't look good,
Martha says, staring at
her claws, sharpening them
against a rock. he can
barely fly sometimes, he's
so weak. Henry shakes
his head, then points,
across the road. look
do you see that? a possum,
looks like he's going to
make a go for it across
the highway. get ready.
i'm ready Henry, i'm always
ready, you know that, she
says winking. maybe we
can wrap some up and make
a stew for the boy,
tonight, Martha says,
stretching her legs.
i'll throw in some turnips
and onions. good idea,
Henry says. maybe go online
find a recipe. half meat,
half veggies.