This will land like focaccia,
Like the careless 'forgot ya'!
And a man will stand while staring in, through the coffee shop window, going off glossolalia.
The ebullient cashier trainee
remembers every name and mixes up almost all the orders
for coffee,
Cars are lined up for the drive-
through, their voices sound like
didjeridoos, in the ears covered
by single cyborg clip-ons
headset taking orders.
The ****** iconoclast, Street person, bows to the ground, hat off his head, as he prays to the cigarette holes he made in the EXIT sign outside,
his hat remains empty, as each car that whips up the wind that tumbles the receipts tossed egregiously at him, like leaves in the Fall,
While the cruciverbalist sits in the corner in the only soft seat, finger pecking her keyboard while stares at the line and sips her chai tea,
lagniappe of chocolate stashed,
away in her voluptuous bag, the beleaguered barista has cups lined up over the transcendental horizon,
and she can't wait for her break
so she can eat with Olio Nuovo
olive oil, and Selection Artisan
ged balsamic vinegar, she brought
to dip, her focaccia bread in,
which she forgot almost,
on the counter at home.