Barista’s with more kick than the coffee
in all kinds of kicks.
Owning their styles like:
black rectangular spectacles and segmented hair,
a shaved side of the head
a boy with crimps on his scalp like a single lonely plough through a wheat field.
They inch, tilt and lean into their work.
Workin’ hard for the money – so hard for it, honey.
(my date is late)
‘No ordinary love’ bounces across the crisp air,
rushing through the door like a repaired pneumothorax.
I’m back to 1993 and sixteen in one hot mess over that blonde boy
with the eyes that change colour when he’s by the river
‘There’s nothing like, you and I, baby.’
And to think I hauled my ass back to him three years later
for more blonde hair, cutting back from the crown;
longer this time, framing his beautiful face,
touching his sun-skimmed shoulders, all skinny and broad.
Shoulders I would cling to like a calf to its mother.
Cling, grab, claw – baying for something made of flesh.
Something that was not there.
And then he set me free –
a rope flaying in rough waters –
enough to make me break.