It’s eleven a.m.
I’m in yesterday’s slip
I awake to the sound of the dog licking his lips

He’s in the room
At the edge of the bed
With an unobstructed view of my delectable head

I follow his stare
Which travels down my hips
His stomach churns, his saliva drips

Suffice it to say
If he's not swiftly fed
Yours truly here will soon be dead