Sunday Roast on Saturday

the week saw an ordinary
pulse of work,
not standing still,
but in forward motion-
so, it was true.

but somewhere in it,
nerves were tested,
equilibrium shorted,
a sense that all
was not right, settled.

too long the wait
for the week end
serenic tradition,
I peppered and
salted a roast on Saturday.

the oven-warm room
and spit and sear of fat
entrance the appetite;
blood moves hungrily 
from brain to belly.

there, work dissolves-
gathered, filling the gullet
in conversation
and calorie, feeling
steadier already.

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