On Sundays Poem by Imogene Wagner

On Sundays Mom an Dad an I
An Sis an Tom an Joad
Git in the car an rattle off
To hunt another road.

An Gee, the creeks an trees an clouds
We travel by – it seems
As if the day was made to swell
A fellow up with dreams.

I don't know why my Gramma says
On Sunday it's a sin
To drive around an wade an all,
It makes you feared to grin.

I don't think Gramma ever saw
A Squirrel run up a Birch
Or else she'd understand as how
Out here's as good as Church.

(September 20,1948)