Spamchronicity

Watching the cauldron start bubbling
And pinkish-red froth start to form
It cooks

Little chunks bob to the surface
Slowly boiling in the water
Waiting

It's like the morsels call to me
In their own delicious voices
They talk

And I listen, watch them boil
Hearing them talk to me, cooking
In time

The red slowly leeches out, and
Leaves them pink-white lumps of dinner,
Cooked meat

My mouth salivates with hunger
Drool leaking out of the corner
Dangling

"How's it go?" he asks behind me
Carries a bowl to put it in
"Quite well,"

I answer, glancing in again
"What a great Thanksgiving dinner
Of SPAM."