I woke up cold,
but not for long. My vacuum sleeping
arrangements and close proximity to
meaty pals warmed me up, prepared me
for the transition to a pan of piping hot oil.
Lobsters scream when dropped
in boiling water, and I always assumed
that’s what the sizzle of a bacon is:
a hellish cry for help. How wrong I was.
When our bodies hit our fate,
the sizzle of my mates translated to,
We’re here, we’re here. The leader
of the pack explained it was a spitting
smoked signal, of sorts, for every human
walking past a window saying,
I can smell bacon, can you smell bacon,
where’s that bacon coming from?

© Carl Burkitt 2023