“Welcome to Book N’ Bean!” I smile,

and ask, “So what’ll it be?”

you wanna be hip, well, so does he—

all these Coffee Shops—more like menageries

whose heavy stools boost heavy souls,

where 35mm prints hang on sullen walls;

and the line to la toilette smells of more than cigarettes,

and fair-trade beans roast inside stuffy walls,

and I reflect—he’s some kitschy asshole,

who was born cool, man.

You’re not the first guy,

and you won’t be the last

to declare through a well-groomed ‘stache—


soy double café breve, light on foam,

and make it fast.”

I think—make it yourself, Fucker—

no one cares you’re vegan.

I reply—“will that be a twelve or twenty ounce?”

“Um, Twenty, of course.”

Irked sighs shoot from his lips.

but here, right now,

I’ll divulge a secret

if you’ll promise to keep it—

I spit in his light foam—twice.


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