Espresso Noir

In he walked in his cap and chinos.
This guy was a cool drink of water,
I mean real hot cup of joe.
He was my kind of guy--
organic, shade-grown and extra tall.
He had a skinny vanilla latte on his arm,
but her disposition wasn't too sweet.
She had a sugar-free aftertaste,
if you know what I mean.
She was as bitter as over-steeped tea.
What was a guy like this doing with a drip like that.

She was iced to the core, a real frappucino.
I'd bet all my Starbucks
she was going to put a real tamper on things.
She was far from harmless
and I knew right away she had a grande scheme
to squeeze him dry.
Now I don't mean to vente here,
but I know a femme fatale when I see one
and she had it in for him.
She was an iced latte with legs
and once she had what she wanted,
she would leave him with nothing but froth.

I went to the counter, the sly barista that I am
and in my best French roast accent
I said, "What can I get ya?"
I knew right away it was a mistake.
"Can I get some ice water?
It's pretty steamy out there today."
"Sure," I said. I moved like honey
to fill his "complimentary" cup with ice water.
I glanced half-n-half-heartedly at the empty tip jar.
"Any charge?" he asked.
I said' "It's on the house."
I percolated pathetically as they mocha'd to the door.
I was too pulled short to do anything about it.
Next time, I'll expose her true syrup flavor.
I'll knock box her around and even use a double shot
if that's what it takes.
In the end, it'll be him and me,
brewing a breakfast blend.

 

–Originally printed in  Something's Brewing anthology, Kind of a Hurricane Press, April 2014. Online and print.

 

Next poem:  Mornings (a haiku series)

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