Recipe for 2 a.m., Alpharetta



A poem about empty nest syndrome and other vagaries of existence that keep us up at night.

Serve night black. Stir silver spoons of sweetener in coffee cups of nighttime cold medicine.  Carve out November, dice December. Sift fifty, made in 1965, only the freshest ingredients. Juice stiff joints,  loosen expectations. Milk truth.

Cleave dark with clever courtroom television drama sequence. Separate from sleep completely, measure and self-police low-carb snacks.  Tuck in a sliver of clean, white hotel sheets against skin. Count blessings, preheat satisfaction. Open heart. Parboil past promises.

Half bed with puppy, set aside lover. Poach scheme for success, balance computer on edge of tray. Work in responsibilities. Fold in daughter’s independence with remainder of year.  Empty nest. Return to bed. Squeeze pillow, truss tresses, undo stress. De-vein and tenderize today, strain extraneous worries.

Dream-bake for one hour on high. Fill bedtime with vinegar hope, mask taste with honeyed scoop of late-night comedy, close-captioned. Cough twice, turn. Toss thoughts. Filet moonlight with poem, let sit on nightstand until it is solidified.



Start over.


(image borrowed from

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