I walk through the swinging glass doorway,
And the bell rings,
Cling-cling!
Her face darts up to mine,
As I sling my coat over my shoulder,
She stands there,
Her face pierced and pockmarked
from days of,
Colombian-coffee-making,
slave-driven labor.
The usual?
Every morning I arrive,
At the edge of the sticky counter,
And shield my eyes from the Reflection,
Of flourescent light,
Off of every metallic facet of her Punk-rock face,
Nose rings,
Earrings,
She makes tongue rings speak.
She doesnt really need to make a Statement,
Through some new-age rebellion.
She makes my coffee sing.
And I thank her for every drop,
Of the methamphetamine-caffeine dream,
That she pours with her oh-so-tender touch,
And you-better-tip-me smile.
I do.
Drop a few coins in the tip-pot,
Jingle-jangle.
Go the coins in the glass,
As the glass door swings,
Cling-cling.
And I'm on my way to work,
While she,
Who's already there,
Preps another cup of joe,
For some cookie-cutter schmo like me,
To be able to start his day.
I hope he tips her too.
