Probably the Latter

By Marco A. Vasquez

Every morning, I see
my dog at the bottom
of the stairs sitting
like an ancient Egyptian
jackal statuette—the rising
sun shining through
the living room window, warming

her back with its glow.
She stares at me—silent—
her tail wagging back and forth
like a solitary windshield wiper.
As I descend the stairs
toward her, her tiny,
bubblegum-colored tongue

escapes her mouth repeatedly
and I imagine that she’s either
blowing me kisses,
welcoming me to the day,
and thinking, “God, I love you, Master”;
or, she’s salivating profusely
and thinking, “Feed me you fat fuck.”