I'm Supposed to be A Writer, so...

...I guess I wrote a poem.

Will a take-out sandwich be the death of me? I wonder if it’s worth it.

The baguette. The turkey. The gouda.

Death by gouda.

Two scraps of quilting fabric and a pipe cleaner

will protect me.

A pipe cleaner will save me. Gouda will kill me.

It’s Saturday. The radishes on the balcony need thinning. 

I saw a pack of Charmin in the wild.