I got myself an itty bitty mortar ‘n’ pestle,
a present for the hard stuff
to get to the sweet stuff inside
things like a vanilla bean
and a cardamom pod
and a restless, tired mind,
which I crushed and added to a sexy Bosc pear
sauteing it all on low flame
with a splash of barrel-aged balsamic
to tease the sweetness out.

Won’t you join me please? You:
who just called yourself a name. And you:
who bit your tongue not to. And you:
who had a drink too many. And you:
who had a drink too few. And you:
dreaming at your desk job. And you:
making a go of it alone. And you:
paired with the love of your life. And you:
out there on your own. And you:
who just flipped your monster the finger,
then hugged him to make up. And you:
who got out of bed anyway. And you:
who couldn’t. And you:
with all the hats. And you:
who can’t find yours. And you:
with the mammogram to get to. And you:
who haven’t had one yet. And you:
cowering in the closet. And you:
cleaning yours out. And you:

that’s right, you:

Won’t you come dip your finger
into this essence of goodness that is you?