Young man who administered the shot told me it would be over soon. He was talking about the pandemic. He liked my hat. I told him it was my keep covid off my hair hat. He said good and shot me in the arm.
dVerse quadrille on the word bother. This is a prose poem quadrille.
Today I counted twelve poop piles— some on the parking strip, some partially hidden in grass, more in the park. I really wanted to find one more to make it a dirty dozen but I gave up knowing it was already on the bottom of someone’s shoe. So I hope to do some shit shaming here and go for a walk where people pick up their dogs’ poo.
Mother made cookies. Peanut butter cookies. She would roll some dough in her hand, make a ball, and place each ball on the cookie sheet. With a fork she would crisscross each one flat. When out of the oven we ate them warm or dipped in cold milk. Every time I bake peanut butter cookies I do the same. I add more peanut butter but I roll the dough in my hand, press the fork and think of mother who loved baking peanut butter cookies for my sisters and me.
NaPoWriMo prompt to write about a habit I got from my mom. I love making peanut butter cookies (and chocolate chip).