Ode to Bacon

by Tom Vale

Light the burner, woosh,

the pan clatters to the grill.

Unwrap the paper, treasure awaits inside.

Black and silent burns the pan, this witches cauldron about to perform magic.

In mere moments, the silence turns to sizzling, cracking, popping.

The aroma wafts up, intoxicating,

but only a false phantom of the true blissful taste which awaits.

Turning, browning, crisping.

The anticipation is agony, an exercise in patience and restraint.

It is time, the tongs lower in and victory is pulled out.

Lowered to the plate like a newborn.

It is time.

You are mine.

Bacon.