She grocery shops after midnight
to three a.m., buys filets, wine.
She cooks for two and sometimes eight,
writes elaborate menus, lights
a fire under beef bourguinon.
She grocery shops after midnight,
leaves her pristine home to chat
with clerks, other insomniacs.
She cooks for two and sometimes eight,
works her way through Julia Child's
books, Cherries' Jubilee, flambé.
She grocery shops after midnight,
buys clotted creams and jams, filled dates,
macadamias, dines alone.
She cooks for two and sometimes eight.
She bakes haiku inside fortune
cookies for her many best friends.
She grocery shops after midnight
then cooks for two--and sometimes eight.
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