by William Bowman Piper

The gingham dog’s returning appetite makes him
Sniff around the plate and the clock
To locate a little cold calico
In vain.
There’s no shred left, no thread, only a chewed
Button eye wedged in the crack where it rolled last night
As they shared their scandalous stew; it stares out
To locate a delicious bit
Of him.
In vain.
Actually, it’s lucky for her—if she were here
That he is not, not any more.
He’d try for another feast. And just as fortunate
for him; she’s still hungry too.