Turkey Buzzards

They've been so long above it all, those two petals so steeped in style they seem to stall in the kettle simmering over the town dump or, better still, the neon-flashed, X-rated rump of fresh roadkill courtesy of the interstate that Eisenhower would overtake in the home straight by one horsepower, the kettle where it all boils down to the thick scent of death, a scent of such renown it's given vent to the idea buzzards can spot a deer carcass a mile away, smelling the rot as, once, Marcus Aurelius wrinkled his nose at a gas leak from the Great Sewer that ran through Rome to the Tiber then went searching out, through the gloam, one subscriber to the other view that the rose, full-blown, antique, its no-frills ruff, the six-foot shrug of its swing-wings, the theologian's and the thug's twin triumphings in a buzzard's shaved head and snood, buzz-buzz-buzzy, its logic in all likelihood somewhat fuzzy, would ever come into focus, it ever deign to dispense its hocus-pocus in that same vein as runs along an inner thigh to where, too right, the buzzard vouchsafes not to shy away from shite, its mission not to give a miss to a bête noire, all roly-poly, full of piss and vinegar, trying rather to get to grips with the grommet of the gut, setting its tinsnips to that grommet in the spray-painted hind's hindgut and making a sweeping, too right, a sweeping cut that's so blasé it's hard to imagine, dear Sis, why others shrink from this sight of a soul in bliss, so in the pink from another month in the red of the shambles, like a rose in over its head among brambles, unflappable in its belief it's Ararat on which the Ark would come to grief, abjuring that Marcus Aurelius humbug about what springs from earth succumbing to the tug at its heartstrings, reported to live past fifty, as you yet may, dear Sis, perhaps growing your hair in requital, though briefly, of whatever tears at your vitals, learning, perhaps, from the nifty, nay thrifty, way these buzzards are given to stoop and take their ease by letting their time-chastened poop fall to their knees till they're almost as bright with lime as their night roost, their poop containing an enzyme that's known to boost their immune systems, should they prong themselves on small bones in a cerebral cortex, at no small cost to their well-being, sinking fast in a deer crypt, buzzards getting the hang at last of being stripped of their command of the vortex while having lost their common touch, they've been so long above it all.