Sundays are spent in the vapors of the roast.
Once this ritual fed a family of six souls .
Now there is only me and the dog.
Salivating in this heady state of nostalgia.
A joint from a beast,
fattened high up on the hill above,
gives up its gravy , with OXO and love,
flour and friction make an appearance too.
I perform the sacrament,
stirring and heating and beating,
just as my grandmothers did before me,
and theirs before them.
Grandfather would always carve,
high priest of the family sect.
Knife rasps against steel.
All down to me now .
Protector of the faith.