starbucked

I actually wrote this over a year ago, sitting at the cafe in Borders where I used to work. I don't know why inspiration hit there, but I still have a soft spot for this poem - mostly because, since leaving that cafe I've been working at Starbucks, where I've found it to be truer than ever. I originally called it "Seattle's Mess," but I guess I might have to change that to something Starbuckian now.

The shopping mall music tastes
like they put too much sugar in my coffee.
I can see the waves of anxiety and caffeine-deprivation
coming off the customers in wavy lines,
And I wish that I could remain
just a silent observer.
“Can I have a double tall half caf soy no foam
extra hot sugar free vanilla latte?”

I’m sure he can feel my resentment sinking
over him like a heavy wool blanket,
Creeping into his mouth and staining
his tastebuds,
so that not even his twelve-ounce
cup of specifications
will erase it.
He taps his foot rhythmically and I
take my time,
the sharpness of his suit and his haircut
burning my nostrils.
I am inhaling his stress, power politics,
report due in an hour, marriage problems.

As he hurries away from me,
I can see each step cracking the tile
under his feet, and the
remaining strands of my annoyance
trail behind him.

Eventually I will follow him,
swerving through road blocks of people,
throwing my anxiety at them as I pass.
Too much homework, rent is due,
the dishes are piling up.
Driving home, the sun sings its
too-sweet-coffee music
directly into my ear.
But I don’t mind so much.

The exhaust fumes invade my eyes
and Mr. Specificity is on my mind.
I hope he comes in tomorrow.
He and I – we’re the same –
his marriage and my dishes.