almost edible

no matter what you do to it,
slice, or dice,
fry or put it between
to pieces of bread,
lather mustard,
or mayo across its
glistening back,
it's still spam. a mutant
meat of sorts
swept up from some floor
you don't want to
know about. mysteriously
pink and gnarled,
canned, how else could
it be sold.
never hanging in the butcher's
window.
never under a plastic
wrap staggered
nicely in rows with real
meat.
spam is the end game.
when the cupboard is bare,
when the apocalypse
is in full bloom.
it's the last thing
to be eaten, well almost
the last, there's
always me, or you.