Sunday Roast

October 3, 2017

Stop tearing your hair

you frightened child, young sad boy.

Pressure cooker

meal is the thing you smell,

pressure cooker family

you see and hear.

Household dysfunction,

all things blowing up,

screams of parents bouncing off the kitchen’s walls

and you sob as you rock madly

back and forth within your invented universe,

the pressure cooker whistle is all around you.

Yours, they shriek, blaming each other,

just admit it this time,

your fault, they howl.

Under this roof

beside the metal stove,

then all noise ceases at once.

You wake from this shrill dream.

Please, come sit.

The family is broken still, but hungry.

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