Type

They said, So what’s your type?
I said, Haven’t got one,
But there must be more than two,
And if you’re in, me and you
We can play this game with no teams and no winners–
We’re neither the saints nor the purest of sinners,
But be my incentive for sticking around on earth,
And I’ll be yours too.
We’ll never find stars down here I’m told,
But our participation here’s prized above gold.

So let’s make a story about me and you
No need to represent
Nothing to represent
Not theory nor experiment.

This is a story about me and you:

 

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More Coffee Shop Logbook Poetry

 

Let’s call this collection ‘Oat Milk and Stevia.’

The Match:

Car-towed and phone-dead
You stumbled cold inside
Searching for a place to charge
So you could call a ride.
You couldn’t reach the taxi
But somehow, by mistake you
Came across some car-owners
Offering to take you.

You came looking for power
But upon further inspection
It wasn’t power that saved you
But rather, some connection.

A Haiku About Writing Over Sharpie Marks With Dry-Erase Markers So You Can Wipe Them Off (And Other Things):

The temporary
Is so quick to overtake
What seemed permanent

This Can Be The Last Poem Entitled ‘Almond Eyes’ Written:

Her eyes were like almonds
in that they produced a watery substance
that could not accurately be described as ‘milk.’

 

Poems I Wrote In the Log Book at My Coffee Shop Job

No More Decaf After 5:

It seems your arrival today was belated
Had you come before 5, you’d see we had made it
There’s tea* if you’d like your buzz more understated
But no more drip coffee that’s decaffeinated

*(Also: Decaf Americanos and other expresso drinks)


No More Music:

There once lived Alexa the bot
She liked to play music–or not
Because sometimes mid-shift
Her mind goes adrift
She’s silently lost in her thought


No More Chocolate Croissants:

There once was a Brooklyn-based BIT [Barista in Training]
Sometimes her customer throws a fit
If the one last croissant
Isn’t the type they want
But she smiles and she nods through that sh*t

 

Again.

Want to make change?
First you’ve got to make history
Out of the fantasies in your mind
Out of the thick air where you draw
Ghosts of some past to inhabit you
Who see ruins of pillars in the cobblestone
and say to rebuild
what always wasn’t
Again.

Rules Of Conditional Acceptance:

They’re so glad to have you here
So long as you’re not too much of what you are,
And can fit yourself inside their narrow outline for one of the good ones
(Exactly one of the good ones).

But now you notice it’s feeling tight
And you’ve spent your life climbing up their pedestal
So you can be a prop:
One season change away from going out of style,
One slip away from getting knocked off.

I don’t want to be one of your good ones anymore.