Bed and Breakfast

Reuben lies filling the king-sized bed and craving his namesake sandwich
(Just where on earth is his sister with today’s groceries?)
When the local news cuts into General Hospital to document Armageddon.
A decadent horde roams the streets and makes a gory smorgasbord of the living.
Reuben watches it all with his jaws gaping and his jowls sagging,
Wondering if his spinster sister has become today’s groceries.
Then either the televised horror or his larded arteries stops his heart,
Transmuting his gross bundle of life into so much dead weight.

When a semblance of sentience returns, he feels an unprecedented hunger
Panging through his soulless carcass. His fresh appetites are
As outsize as he is; if he can only get up and trundle outside
Cannibalistic bliss awaits. He grunts and rocks yet remains
Turtled on his back, frustratingly resurrected, undead but bedridden.
He puddles drool on the coverlet, sees but one way out of this plush bear trap.
So, showing more willpower than his static forerunner ever did, zombie Reuben
Presses a hammy arm to his maw and finally commits to reducing.