A hungry wolf is tearing at my gut.
He growls with restlessness
Circles in me three times,
Plops his heavy firmness down
To slumber, until
He wakes and growls again.

I think of how he got inside.
Ironically, this has nothing to do
With what I ate,
But what I did not eat.
I swallowed this beast with the regrets
Of the lunch I sorely missed.

We wait until supper, agonizingly delayed.
Temptations dwell in the air; corn and roast meats.
Wolf gives a leap, thunder rumbles in me;
He wags his tail, beating heavily against my insides,
Whines and begs, paws the pit of my stomach.
We sit, licking our chops.

Anxiously, he bolts
Devouring the very essence of his destruction
For when he eats, he grows smaller,
Satisfied to be put to rest.
Still he greedily aches for more –
Ravenous!

“Don’t wolf your food,” says my father.