Sunday Roast


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By Lauren Nagy, Editor

The days of Sunday Roast

which, for a small pocket of years,

can be appreciated for what they are,

are gone before you know they’re there.


A walk at noon,

beneath the gray burbles,

among the flakes of autumn,

laughing all the way,

list empty for the day.


Later a feast,

but don’t tell me what’s in it,

as the gray grows darker

and smoke billows from every chimney

and the sound of knives being sharpened

and water sizzling.


But they’re fading

for one day, the lights will go out,

the smoke won’t blow,

and so will the Sunday Roast

be gone.