Researchers

When you live long enough / and progress as a poet, / friends fall away, / either in envy, / or in disgust. / Only a motley bunch / of researchers arrive / banging on your door. / Looking this way, / that way, they resemble / scavenging birds / hungry for their prey. / They peck at your nerves / as though they were / spaghetti, edible. / They are ravenous / for tasty titbits; / many split open your bones / and lick the marrows off. / Poets are edible / material, even one at / death’s door can provide / a research scholar / a memorable feast.