Runcible Spoon

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Sunday Dinner at Linden’s

 

Linden is shaking the potatoes, turning them,

one hand on the spatula, one hand on the roasting dish.

He is laughing.

In all seriousness, he is

saying the potatoes need another fifteen minutes.  

He closes the oven door gently

so as not to blow out the flames inside.

 

There is

broccoli and cauliflower steaming,

carrots and white turnip boiling,

on every shelf of the oven;

a roasting dish. Opening the door

my glasses catch steam.  

Sweet potato, parsnips, new jerseys,

all chopped, sizzle and pop.  

 

The red onion and garlic

whole, sweating.  

 

The underlying beat;

the heavy scent

of roasting meat.

 

A leg of a lamb knows

what it means to walk,

to hold a body,

to dawdle, jump,

to have purpose beyond being liberally minted

for rude consumption.  

 

A corrupt and magnificent texture weighs the air.

We wet our lips in anticipation.