"Bound By Blood"

A Poem by Steven Pottle

I hate that moment when someone leaves the room
And there is a silence, darting looks and certain smiles
Then the circling vultures overhead begin to descend one by one
Going in for the kill they tear at the soul, they pick at the bits and they "hate her dress".

I stare into my hands with palms exposed and I try not to dab into the blood of others
But the room is getting warmer and the punch line is getting closer
And I say, "I know what you mean as they do that to me"
Suddenly I can taste the flesh and it makes me feel like one of the family and friends...