Borborygmi
have finished their low growls and now howl
aloud just like
a ravenous wolf pack surveilling
the frozen lands
of the Arctic for lonesome elk.
From the muffled
muttering of other stomachs
sitting around
the table, I know that the storm
of starving wolves
are not the lone scavengers here.
Snarling dingoes
and snickering hyenas join
in the unrest
and request in guttural tones
that some ripe prey
is found or delivered post haste.
I start to pray
that my meal is served soon before
my gut’s moans grow
louder and warn my friends, fellow
feasters and beasts
on the prowl for hapless pizza.