Pot Roast

I gaze upon the roast, that is sliced and laid out on my plate, and over it
I spoon the juices of carrot and onion. And for once I do not regret the
passage of time.

I sit by a window that looks on the soot-stained brick of buildings and do
not care that I see no living thing—not a bird, not a branch in bloom, not a
soul moving in the rooms behind the dark panes.
These days when there is little

to love or to praise one could do worse than yield
to the power of food. So I bend

to inhale the steam that rises from my plate, and I think of the first time
I tasted a roast like this.
It was years ago in Sea bright, Nova Scotia; my mother leaned over
my dish and filled it and when I finished filled it again.
I remember the gravy, its odor of garlic and celery, and sopping it up
with pieces of bread.

And now
I taste it again.
The meat of memory.
The meat of no change.
I raise my fork and I eat.