Moments as a Mediocre Barista

Poetry

Where the reader learns
that the poet wasn’t great
at her summer job.

Americano
dribbles down the edge of its
cup, scalding fingers.

Cappuccino foam
does not float, but flutters down
beneath espresso.

Queues seeking caffeine
tap feet, drum nails, glance at clocks,
glare at slow service.

Cash and card machine
mechanisms curtail the
speed of transactions.

“The cakes are stale,” states
critical voice already
stuffed with sampled crumbs.

Caterwaul cries of
children whose plates slide off trays
dropped before their eyes.

Broken ceramic
tears black bin bags asunder,
liberating waste.

Dishwashers rumble
unrest as dark foamy depths
are overloaded.

Calorie counts in
summer milkshake selections
evoke depression.

Full fat fresh milk turns
sour through over-exposure
to steamer fume mists.

Crema and micro-
foam combine to create art
customers ignore.

Multiple nights, stains
are scrubbed clean from uniforms
meticulously.

Sigh; unexpected
sensory response to fresh
grounded coffee beans.