Epicured
An ode to pepperoni
Eleven

If perfection existed as a production of the sum of human genius
It would be the delight before me now
Slicings of superior joy
A mastery in form and function that elevates all it touches
Cured savagery spiced and served like tiny offerings for the holiness of our mouths

Were we as a species ever so godlike in our ability to create
That we could conceive of such perfection writ small
A triumph in form and color and flavor such as the mastery of flesh
A sacred act of cleansing and preservation in purification
Gilded scarlet and anointed in oils
To be venerated thusly, or in great ceremony,
Kissed in the burning heart of our desires
Above the bubbling beds of gluttony,
Born of heat and pressure milked from each worshipful act
As to station such civility.

And thus, as gods, we feast divine
To serve such communion to community
For never again could there stand such a monument to voracity
That our appetites be slaked in the exaltation of such a hunger.