The grumpy queue shortened.
‘No fat,’ decreed the matron
in front of me.
‘No whip,’ cried her friend.
‘Next,’ and a barrista`s
what`s-your-pleasure look.
‘Latte,’ I asked
and settled for a tall.
(Oh the way she pulled
the nozzle down
and wiped it clean
left no doubt she knew
how to handle a customer,
brisk and business-like.)
‘Do you want foam?’
she whispered, pumping
as I pondered her performance
and Sigmund Freud–
Would he have had his grandé?
‘How come men don`t serve?`
I naughtily ventured.
She smirked and shot back
‘They don`t keep things clean.’
‘Ah,’ I said, suppressing a grin
and stirred my poem to go.
……………………………………………………….
Another context poem in which the Freudian contextful language and actions overwhelm the least imaginative wordsmith. Something of a study of the sexes and their respective psychologies and bents. This familiar context and the language exchanges of this particular visit were obviously too much of a writing window to resist.
(previously published here Sept. 2, 2012)