Henry’s Elegy For Anna Nicole Smith

The scavengers have killed her,
the buzzards, bloodsuckers, Draculas,
the hangers on, the greedy

who feed on the carcass of the living,
the slimy media types, the cable networks want
fresh blood every day, pounce on their latest victim,

parade them out to the nation,
screaming, see, see their weaknesses,
their shortcomings, their humanness.

But the critics never turn the camera
toward themselves, they never look in the mirror
to see their own putrid hearts,

they never smell their own foul scent.
Whether you’re a fallen astronaut,
a runaway bride, or Ann Nicole Smith,

the buzzards tear at your flesh
even while you try to crawl away.
There's nothing left for the hyenas.