Life, From Behind the Counter

I’ve just finished the mobile order for French-Vanilla-Latte Jerry,

as he walks in and takes it to go, saying nothing.

Half-Caf-Soy-Latte-With-An-Extra-Shot

is sipping in the far corner, staring at nothing in particular,

forgetting to blink.

She’s dressed for office work,

sensible shoes, military crease in the pants.

Looking right through Grande-Americano,

who’s in faded jeans and work boots, reading a newspaper.

Salted-Caramel-Frappuccino, dressed for high school,

opens and closes her chemistry book, seeing nobody.

The Beatles’ Eleanor Rigby is playing,

“all the lonely people”.

The irony is so thick, you could drown in it.

I don’t spend any time in bars, but I wonder:

Do bartenders see more life than baristas?

Homeless-Guy comes in,

chatting like he’s on top of the world,

orders a small, plain coffee.

We talk while I pour. He offers his name, Freddy.

I give him a cookie, on me.

Salted-Caramel gets up and goes, leaving her cup and napkin.

Freddy casually busses her table on his way back to the street.

Blueberry-Hot-Tea is trying to feed her baby,

while her three-year-old colors a picture, next to a half-eaten doughnut.

The little artist toddles over and offers her masterpiece to Half-Caf.

The latter, startled,

laughs with as much glee as the kid.

Grande-Americano notices,

makes eye contact with both,

smiles, and winks.

This might turn out to be a good day.

Copyright ©2018, Paul H. Harder II

This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.

I took this photo at Café Marrese, near our home. The drink is their signature latte, the Marrese. The photo is used by gracious permission of Allen Green, the proprietor.