Caffeine

He doesn’t like these franchised places
with their name-tagged “baristas”,
groomed to be excitable and toothy.
(As students should never be.)

He doesn’t want cinnamon sprinkles,
organic sustainable stirrers
and blends christened according to
zeitgeist trending exoticism.
He could apparently peruse their website
(free wi-fi!) to assess which fair trade bean
meets his needs best.
Also, he doesn’t want tea that’s green.

He doesn’t welcome sweetened questioning
on whether he would like a muffin with that.
If he did, he would simply have asked.
And no, he’s not having a good day.

The Doctor told him last week to cut out caffeine.
He sucks the air in lung-deep, but leaves.
Unsatisfied. His loyalty card unstamped.

There’s a café down a side street
where the woman serving has no teeth.
She gum-mashes Nicorette with
comforting aggression and never looks at anyone,
Her forearms pump and plunge her urns,
her steaming weaponry. She harrumphs
under-breath curses. Could teach him
a few new ones.
Sticky buns slump their enticement
in a lump under violet-lit Perspex
and a fly-catcher that seems to have once
worked very effectively.

The tables are splayed with builders:
fluorescent jackets, copies of The Sun.
Slurping creosote-strength tea.
He hates his pinstripes, conspicuous,
and remembers his Dad.
Orders stewed black tea.
Steals a half dozen sugar cubes

Holly Magill lives in Worcestershire and blogs regularly at www.hollyannegetspoetic.wordpress.com. Her interests include cats, tea-drinking and badgers.

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