They bustle, hustle
like ants in a box,
going nowhere, nowhere,
pop up to my counter top
from their semi-ordered line

I take their orders, same as last time:
Venti-turtle-soy-sugarfree-latte-extrafoam-nowhippedcream
a­nd I swipe their plastic cards through my machine.
What a dream, a dream.

Chatter, swipe, shout, sign-here-please
And scatter on out with marginal ease—
hands full of coffee cups, bagels, cream cheese
Calling a boss, late again (I laugh,
I’ve been here since six,
and they think they’ve got a tough schedule to keep?)

When it’s finally time, I take my break,
stare at the syrups, the powders, the cakes,
and pour my coffee black
with nothing that’s fake.