Listen to poem:
Its Sunday
Its Sunday
By David J Walker
It’s Sunday and my uncle smells of
Cheap Avon colon that comes in a
Smoked glass automobile bottle
Bought from his sister-in-law
He is wearing his best suit
His only suit
His Sunday go to meeting suit
My Aunt dresses in her best dress
Not her only dress but the special dress
Purchased years ago from a store
That is no longer there on the Square
It’s Sunday and
The regular pew at the
Jackson Avenue Baptist church
Is waiting
With approved
Ringside seats for the saved
It’s Sunday and the house smells of
Crisp fried chicken and baked pies that
My Aunt has been working on all morning
There will be creamy mashed potatoes
With gravy
Black-eyed peas with okra
Hot rolls sent down from heaven covered
In sweet cream butter
But there will be nothing
Before Grace is said
As the Amens come to an end
By early afternoon
It’s Sunday and Those of us
from the farms
would know
How Sundays go unchallenged
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