I hunt for the roaster as I get ready for a crowd on T-day; it’s hard:
I go into one room and think “what did I want in here,”
sometimes I remember, but always I find a job to do anyway.
The list is long.
Wish I was as focused as that Michigan man who died at the polls,
got resuscitated, and asked immediately “did I vote?”
(Which he did, by the way.)
Me too. Vote that is.
But what am I rummaging for in the pan closet?