Mama Cooked a Roast On Sunday
People like spokes of a wheel
Streaming in the church on a Sunday morning hill;
The preacher talks of the prodigal son,
While the gathering ends in a reverend song.
And Mama cooked a roast on Sunday.
The smell of the enticing pot
Of chuck and potatoes and onions, carrots,
Conjure memories of Sunday dinners,
Where a table was set for returning sinners.
And Mama cooked a roast on Sunday.
Filled and sleepy I had to wash dishes,
And left alone with my own wishes
That I, too, could nap while the folks read papers,
Instead of stuck with cloth and scraper.
While Mama left the roast on Sunday.
My mind would drift to people foreign thin, hungry and hot.
In other worlds across the seas,
And my young girl’s heart would dejectedly drop
Like my recent church bowed knees.
Where Mamas don’t cook roasts on Sunday
And now that I am old looking back on my life,
I hope my little coins helped feed a needy child,
Shooing away some flies from its mother’s eyes,
I pray that I’ll remember why,
Mama cooked a roast on Sunday.
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