Santa Ana November day,
I sit out on the deck.
You watch football.
Broccoli is steaming for our lunch,
while the rice rests on its still-hot burner,
and the kitchari warms.
I wonder about Thanksgiving,
three weeks away,
where we should be,
given our discombulated house.
I can tell I am aging
by the speed of time,
the speed of time and
how slow I feel.