Sunday Roast
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The days of Sunday Roast
which, for a small pocket of years,
can be appreciated for what they are,
are gone before you know they’re there.
A walk at noon,
beneath the gray burbles,
among the flakes of autumn,
laughing all the way,
list empty for the day.
Later a feast,
but don’t tell me what’s in it,
as the gray grows darker
and smoke billows from every chimney
and the sound of knives being sharpened
and water sizzling.
But they’re fading
for one day, the lights will go out,
the smoke won’t blow,
and so will the Sunday Roast
be gone.
About the Contributor
Lauren Nagy, Editor
Lauren is a senior at Freehold High School, eager to be entering her third year as a writer for The Colonial's literary magazine and her second year as an editor. An avid reader, she is also a multi-instrumentalist and enjoys knitting when she can find the time. Despite her place in the Medical Sciences program, she foresees a career in neither medicine nor science - and would rather study English, creative writing, and music in college. If she wrote a novel that one day became a widely beloved classic, that would be pretty nice too.
