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