Ravens

Swarming, impeccable, feather-tipped by evening,
in their dark suits with straightened ties,
at their empty mahogany tables spread across floors of glass,
with leathery wings tucked neatly into leathered belts,
they smile sincere beaked smiles--

revealing fresh stains left by juicy red pith--
that widen when I reach into my pockets.
They are crouched at the edge of their chairs,
feet and hands placed intricately, prepared and ready to pounce,
to smile and always devour--

always hungry,

never limping, never lame, always wishing for the same,
if there were enough it would never be,
because they are hungry
and they feed upon me.