It’s Thursday night in a provincial art centre
A Fulbright scholar has just finished reading
from her just published collection of essays
I eye up the last vol au vent on the snack table
and sneak a look at the clock on my phone
Already dreaming of the post reading pint
The moderator opens the floor to questions
My heart beats out a drum solo and a stream
of sweat runs from my left temple to my chin
As a culture vulture flaps down from its perch
Fluttering down in front of the microphone
the bird opens its beak and spits out the bone
of a visiting English novelist it had been picking
at since she plucked it from his out of his ribcage
at a panel on the death of the postmodern novel
The vulture spreads its wings and puffs its chest
Squawking “this is really more of a comment
than a question but I just really want to say”
A morgue-chill descends on the auditorium
as the bird chirps out its boring monologue
We wince with each sphincter-sealing
remark establishing a special connection
between our Avian friend and the professor
Eventually the moderator a master of tact
steps in and gently shuts the questioner down
above us the committee of vultures protest
feeling subbed they adopt an attack formation
swooping downward they peck at the speaker
tearing chunks out of her Balmain's blazer
they projectile vomit over the sales table
ruining the signed copies of the collection
As the vultures reach the height of Hitchcockian
fury we discreetly slip out the fire exit
escaping from the pandemonium of feathers
and blood that always follow these readings
as the vultures tear chunks out of each other
trying to get noticed by the BBC camera crew.