Sunday Roast




Stop tearing your hair
you frightened child, young sad boy.
Pressure cooker meal is the thing you smell,
pressure cooker family you see and hear.
Household dysfunction, all things blowing up,
screams of parents bouncing off the kitchen’s walls
and you sob as you rock madly
back and forth within your invented universe,
with the  pressure cooker whistle all around you.
Yours, they shriek, blaming each other,
just admit it this time, your fault, they howl
under this roof beside the metal stove. 
Then all noise ceases at once.
You wake from this shrill dream.
Please, come sit,
The family is broken still, but hungry.
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