Poetry

OCD

shutterstock_243325312The salt from a French fry

            Litters my palm,

The scent of onion

            And pickles

                        And burger grease

                                    Soaks through the bun.

A bushel of napkins,

            But the smell still lingers;

There’s no hot water

            No soap

                        Or towel

                                    To ease my restless fingers.

Still, I must wash.

            Before.

                        And after.

                                     And again.

(Writing Prompt: HABIT, part of Poetry 101 Rehab by Mara Eastern – Thanks, Mara! Feel free to jump on her poetry wagon each Monday!)

Mother Hen

© motherhendiaries 2015, all rights reserved

19 replies »

  1. I am the same way! I go through mass amounts of soap and I hate refilling the dispensers. Onions are the worst! If I cut up onions on Monday, I can still smell the scent of them on my hands by Wednesday! I have always wondered if lemon juice would work to obliterate the smell. I haven’t tried it yet though.

    Liked by 1 person

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