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 cleanerwill 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.