Sunday Dinner

He pats his taut skin
like a lover
would pat a passing
bottom.
And yet it's the rise of his own
mountainous stomach
that he gloats over.
Holding memories
of clove scented apple pie, butter filled pastry,
potato clouds, rich dark gravy.
Aroma of sweet baby carrots
dulling his mind, young
broccoli trees trotted down his gullet.
Mouth now open,
saliva now spilling
meeting
the tautness of his
stomach, where his
happy days
lie.