“Remember when we used to pour our own milk in Starbucks? I miss those days,” one patron wrote nostalgically on X earlier this month... Now in the process of getting reinstatement…
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oddity sujet for a poeme. and it begs with
hidden overtones even, for an overture, please,
even the babes&big babies among us with barely a decade to call their own,
long for the un~
complicated places, days, even the moments
momentous that will resonate evermore,
even the most favored nation of that stuffed
animal, that cannot be dismissed, discarded,
who will join them in their no loco parenting of a
snug single of a freshman doormroom,
with no shame, when the hungry boys are
permitted entry to the chamber, blushing from the hopefulness's of potency of
getting first lucky,
foolishly sarcastic remarking on
this sad sacred animal presence, and being subsequently serviley, quick dismissed,
with a stupid,wry twisty, puzzled squared landing on their mouth, where the just sensed
passionate kisses will ow/now
never arrive
yes, nostalgic
commences amidst the multiple in ~ puts
from early days, ever on,
sorted, filed, systematically,
in a system greater than the
dewey decimal of our libraries
and we experimented with
numerous pours of variable quantities
of
various “milks”
lesson taught when the station is unbusy,
and cute yong men offer helpful hints,
calorically, nutrient-wise, taste varietals,
and leaving a phone number
on the wax container of the
trialed oat milk
which is so a
thing
hard to miss, hard to lose
perhaps this instant of rapture rappore
will lead to a long life,
maybe till spring semester when
you,
a saturated years older
slightly more cautious,
*and yet^
after a hundred nyets,
in a San Fran Starbucks,
near the first job,
it happens, and memories are
rejiggered, restoring priorities
andy
don’t tell nobody
that stuffed animal
is resting comfortably
on her bedroom
in an apt.
Shared with two others,
To all entering, holy of holies,
as a prescreening no~tech
stuffed, well hugged
animal device will
assign a
pass/fail grade
