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Persona Poems

Espresso Machine

Every day,
I spew their shots out into
vanilla hazelnut half-caf triple nonfat
caramel machiattos.

Usually I work well under pressure,
usually I can keep my cool,
the shots are pulled evenly,
they’re the right temperature,
and it’s all good.

Customer satisfied.

But sometimes I just get sick of it,
when the beans are running low
and I have to spit out three or four
triples in a row, boom boom boom.

Hasn’t it ever occurred to anyone
that occasionally I could use an
extra shot of energy, too?

So I quit.
Stopped.
Just like that.

I became a useless hunk of machinery,
wasting counter space, and it was blissful -
if only for a day or so.

I listened with glee as the servers
explained, over and over
 and over again -

“I’m sorry, our espresso machine is broken.
Wait! We can still make frappuccin...
oh, nevermind.”

They think I can’t hear them when they
complain, calling me possessed,
jabbing me with sharp little nails
and more force than is required
to extract a shot of espresso.

I’m the reason your customers
are walking away in angry huffs right now,
and you can’t do a damn thing about it.

“Indie Rock Couple”

They overhead Jon tell that one barista
that he’d christened them the
“Indie Rock Couple.”

That’s cool - there are worse
nicknames out there, right?

They hang out in the philosophy
section, the Barnes & Noble classics
section, the music department.

He holds her little hand in his,
stealing a scruffy kiss between the shelves.
Pulling out a book about Existentialism,
Sartre, Nietzsche, Watchmen and Philosophy.

No, no, she wants to go check out
Dave Eggers’ new book.
She tugs him along, her hand still in his,
to the fiction section, her “I Read Banned Books” tote
bumping into his torso with each step.

They share a mocha. She wants a needlessly huge
chocolate chip cookie, and he obliges.

They share a comfy chair,
she with her Dave Eggers,
he with his philosophy,
and they wonder if they’ll spend
the rest of their lives coming to Barnes & Noble.

They can’t decide if this is a cheery thought or not.

Apron

I could tell you everything that’s happened
in the past week or so based on these smudges.

First, Abby dropped a vanilla buttercream cupcake --
that’s the white smudge in the corner.

Then Jordan exploded the mocha everywhere that night --
that would be the brown.

Faith spilled some milk,
and Erin splashed chai everywhere.
The chai actually missed most of me and
ended up in her hair.

I’ve got black where I was used to
erase the whiteboard, soap from when
the dish sink overflowed, and neon green
patches of matcha tea powder.
Oh, matcha powder.

My strings are limp from constant tying and untying --
tight around her waist,
double around hers,
loose around his.
Adjust the neckstrap for the tiny baristas
and loosen it up for the guys.

The old manager would take me home and wash me weekly.
The new one does it a lot less frequently.

I miss the old manager.