Here I am in this life –
peeling a potato,
watching my hands
intently as I do,
which my daughter
calls my farm girl hands
pudgy and unglamorous.
I am being careful
of the eyes,
contemplating my uncertainty
of them –
whether I might track down
this information on the Web.

Dusk in October,
the Santa Ana conflicts
with my oven-baked meal
but I proceed.
It is autumn,
we will have mashed potatoes
for dinner.
Once I got married
on this day,
today I am peeling