Behind the Counter.
Dressed in the oppressive black
that marks a minimum-wage worker.
I drive to work before the early risers leave dreamland.
55mph in town isn’t a problem when the cops aren’t even up
yet.
Slipping on an apron,
Why am I protecting a $5 shirt?
The hum of the machines,
Still alone, but no longer in silence.
The pot brews,
The cookies bake,
The tea seeps,
Thermometers collaborated.
The sun is my timer.
When it’s up, it’s too late,
People without their fix are unforgiving.
They tend to forget that what they want
is on my side of
the counter.
However, white collars running late write my paychecks.
Some faces are blurred,
I don’t care, to them I’m a personified coffee pot.
The smile they get is just as commercial as the black crack
I serve them.
10am is why I come to work at 7.
People who aren’t in a hurry.
These are the socializers.
I know all of their names, as well as their orders.
They want to chat and I want to listen.
How surprised they would be
If they arrived just 3 hours earlier.
After two years,
I can predict any order when they walk in the door.
To really know someone
Is to pour their coffee.
Oct 15, 2012
