coffee shop: a poem

the bell over the door
chimes
as it opens and closes.
upbeat music plays
from scattered speakers
over the din
of casual conversation
and scraping chairs.

abstract art
and
burlap bags are
pinned to the walls.

on the shelves:
fresh baked goods
behind clean, transparent glass—
windowed rows of
glazed sugar confections
and
shiny, vented
heat-sealed bags
of Arabica coffee
packed into rows
like soldiers.

also:
gleaming metal tumblers
and glistening ceramic mugs.

the line gathers, and
the register keys sing
as the cash drawer
slides open
and clangs with
the clash of coins
against the plastic tray
as they slam against
the interior.

cha-klink!

the blenders buzz.
the crack-snap of the ice
as it crunches.
the ffwhipp of the suction
of blender blades
like a centrifugal cyclone
pulling the drink down
into destruction.
ice and milk and mocha powder
break down,
and coalesce
into one
dark brown,
icy soup,
and
sweetened whipped cream
is sprayed on top
like sugary clouds.

for hot lattes:
molasses colored coffee beans
shift in the grinder,
whirring.
beans cleave in two,
then two again,
and again, and again.
the cyclone of the blades
spin in a concentric dance
of sharpened steel.

beans become shards,
become fragments,
become fractures,
become grounds
like grains of sand.

the grounds get scooped
and pressed
and flattened into a portafilter
and clicked into the slot
and the button gets pressed.

scathing water
is gravity forced
through the grounds—
the water seeps through the gaps
finding the path of least resistance.

it enters clear,
and exits caffeinated.
water before,
espresso now.

the milk is then poured
into a silver canister
and the steam wand is
placed inside
and the handle goes up
and the steam
hisses.
the milk bubbles and growls
as it cooks—
the octave of the squeal reducing—
and the steam
edges through the surface
of the milk
like a submerged creature.
the wand is raised
and the heat rises—
puffing the fat—
and fluffs it
like a layer of fog
on a pond.

then the espresso
gets poured into
a paper cup
as the foam is held back
and the scalding milk
is poured on top of it.
they mix,
becoming one,
and it fills the cup
and
up up up
it goes to the brim.

the foam is scooped
on top of the drink—
the spoon scraping
the canister interior,
(metal on metal, that all too familiar sound),
and the foam sits a top the liquid,
that perfect
pièce de résistance.

###

This is a poem from my book, bearing the burden of existence, available on Amazon.

Be sure to check out my blog, A Soul Redeemed.