- Jake Iaccino
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.