The Sunday Rule

The service done, the city's hum began, a choice of feasts, a quickly laid-out plan.
Sometimes the market: fried chicken, crisp and gold, hot taters, steaming, a story to be told. A fist of ketchup packs, a hasty prize, then to the park, beneath the open skies.
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We ate it all—in the car's cramped seat,
On picnic tables, or the grass beneath our feet. It was the rule, the feast we had to share, with the waterfront space and the cool river air. Whether bought or made, the Sunday rule, down by the boat ramp, a hungry ritual.
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Or simple sandwiches, our morning-made delight, peanut butter, spread just right.
And water bottles, always near and full, a simple burden, but we loved the pull.
We ate it all—in the car's cramped seat, on picnic tables, or the grass beneath our feet.
​
We ate it all—in the car's cramped seat, on picnic tables, or the grass beneath our feet. It was the rule, the feast we had to share, with the waterfront space and the cool river air. Whether bought or made, the Sunday rule, down by the boat ramp, a hungry ritual.
​
The seagulls watched, keen-eyed, a circling threat, a hungry choir, they gathered, we all met. They flew and landed, waiting for the grace, a dropped crumb welcomed in that waterfront space. The river flowed, the boat ramp stood nearby, but all our focus was the food and sky.
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Then one great laugh, a moment sharp and clear, my father's friend, surprised by fowl-based fear. He tossed the scraps, a peace offering sent, a sudden splat, the feathered reprimand. On his unsuspecting head, the memory set— A laugh so deep, I haven't ceased it yet.
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Oh, the Sunday rule...
A laugh so deep...
Haven't ceased it yet...

Folk and Americana