Weekend Brews

Featureless faces stand in line as I feel the heft 

Of the Portofilter in my hand under the tiny earthquake

Gnawing and spewing beans. I gaze past the boxes marked 

Half-caff, non-fat, no foam latte and 2 pumps syrup, 

Soy, no whip, one-thirty-three degree mocha. 

 

I remember Wonder bread toasted and buttered, 

Drowning soggy strips of crust in warm coffee between sugary sips. 

I finish my breakfast to the glow of Saturday's cartoons. 

Next to the mire of muted rainbow milk in my opal bowl 

Is a porcelain tea cup of coffee, the color of chocolate chip-less cookies. 

 

I doubt other kindergartners peeled back opaque lids 

From ribbed tin cans and sunk little fingers into black granules,

Intoxicated by the aroma of sweet and smoky. 

I take coffee with my cream and sugar. 

 

Coffee stunts your growth, but it's only a little, so it will be fine. 

 

Her tissue skin draped over osteoporosis is translucent in slices 

Of orange sunbeams pouring though the daisies and lavender, 

From my plastic thrown of stickers I watch her eyes 

Dreaming on evergreens out the window. Later we will walk

The hill for the mail and pick peas from the garden. 

 

The gavel smack of grounds being discarded brings me back 

To the stainless steel pitcher in my palm, aerating milk 

Into a sweet and dense meringue,

Squealing under the sputter of the wand. 

Handing off another white paper cup with a "genuine" smile, 

I stare down the queue of entitled and impatient suits and strollers. 

 

The bright of black oil spill in my mug

Is now served next to a Camel light. 

I take espresso in my coffee, sometimes cream, 

The color of a paper bag.