Feast (an acrostic poem)

Image: img.atlasobscura.com/a5Yk3aj6Vqi3L5Dil86YVpJCp47vpOl3fAtTI-V0wXw/rt:fill/w:1200/el:1/q:81/sm:1/scp:1/ar:1/aHR0cHM6Ly9hdGxh/cy1kZXYuczMuYW1h/em9uYXdzLmNvbS91/cGxvYWRzL2Fzc2V0/cy8zYmZkMWNhNWRm/NzcxYjJjMzVfUm9j/ayBGb29kIFRhYmxl/Mi5qcGc.jpg

Focusing on the food was what gave him pleasure

Every morsel perfectly prepared and consummately seasoned

At the moment he could think of nothing better existing in the universe

So why was his stomach still an echo chamber of empty rumbles?

The fact the meal in question was just an old magazine spread and he had no money

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