I am the warm smell of a Sunday sauce Paused in the thought of yesterday— I hear loud voices, yet not angry ones. I see hands flying, not in the dangly violence, but in speech. I find myself in a land of utter amazement. Faint in the talk of my grandfather’s past, Fast I find myself in another land, within one. In this land I hear voices of others, Voices of people trekking far and wide into a new land. Italian becomes English and all the same. But, in this big land, I always find my way Back to that warm Sunday Sauce.