Ode to Spam
Succulent sweet, pink gelatinous meat squeezed
into a loaf-round can with a key to unlock all
the secrets revealed in recipes known only
to islanders too fat to hunt a pig. Try it fried
until the edges crisp up like baked skin
and the inside soaks with oil. A sumptuous fare
for any lover of potted meat parts and pressed
connective tissue. O Spam! I love you most
in morning, with runny yellow yokes sopped up
by buttered black toast. King of all things made
of meat! I love you at supper, my centerpiece complete!
All meats are equal, but some meats are more equal
than others, according to Spaminal Farm, a literary feast.
Even Spamlet implored of Ophelia, “Get thee to a cannery!”
O rhapsody of salt and fat! Cubed and scrambled
with onions and peppers and last night’s rice, baked
and poached, barbecued on a skewer, boiled and braised
over hot red coals, squeezed into sumptuous spamburgers
and served on spamalicious buns. Today, spamaroni!
Tomorrow, apple spam turnovers! The ubiquitous,
anonymous mystery of its immortality, this immoral
meat stitched up like Frankenspam, one part shoulder,
one part butt, congealed and glued together with a hundred
years of deliciously long shelf life. Twenty-seven grams
of total fat, and enough salt to preserve your soul
for centuries, this dietary democracy, puréed
and pressed into a perfect meal shared across cultures,
food that heals and brings peace, holy and pure,
my transcendental porkorific bliss, I bless you.
by Robin Shepard
Editor’s Note: Any poem that uses a word like “Frankenspam” is a delight, and this one also has clever internal rhymes, alliteration, and additional delicious word gems like “porkorific” and “spamalicious.”
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