Sunday Sauce

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.