Mocha carpet leads to the counter where a tired girl works.
She’s had six cups.
The blinds are shut, blocking out the swiftly rising sun,
The brisk wind stirs the familiar aroma.
A freshly showered man sits reading his paper
A woman loudly gabs a million miles a minute on her cell phone as others glare.
The premature holiday songs are ignored
Along with the painted snowflakes
Plastered on the window
Attempting to set the spirit.
A tap tap tap of coins slam on the counter
Everyone jumps and turns
The poor girl needs help.
Maybe a seventh cup . . .?
The newspapers fly around the room,
One by one people commence behind their pages
Hiding from each other in silence
Except for the occasional sip and stir.
Two hyenas laugh in the corner.
They just graduated high school
Soaring on their caffeine highs.
I inch my way closer to happiness
One grande cappuccino.
Two sugars.
As the sun rushes high beyond the blinds
I snap the lid on my morning ritual
As the poor girl reaches for cup number eight.

—Michael Triolo