Under gray skies, days threaten to MERGE, a blur of monotony. So sick of being sick. I wish there was a pill, a food, something to do to ROUST unwanted germs from my body, misery from my soul. Oh, how we all would TROOP to grab that cure! En masse, a demonstration of need and urgency. I dream on, waiting and waiting some more.

Georg’ann

Many grocery deals.
WASTE is THORN. Cook, then cook more.
Enough for a TROOP.

Heather