it’s one of those hipster coffee shops my parents hate:
marquee board w/ numbers lacking a $
( ESPRESSO 6 DECAF ESPRESSO 5.5 LATTE 7 )
man with a handlebar moustache behind a bright orange coffee bar
& lo-fi remixes of 80s songs playing over the speakers
this is a time before I know anything about coffee flavoring—
my grandma drinks it black
& my mom buys powdered supermarket creamer—
& there ain’t a list in sight
so I stammer a rushed order in my Arkansas drawl
& wind up sipping straight black decaf espresso
from a tiny orange ceramic mug
with shaking unmanicured hands.
I’m a teenage zit, an obvious painful glowing red.
so tiny—so large.
choking down the hot, sharp drink,
I realize I ain’t the clientele
for one of those hipster coffee shops my parents hate.
I’m meant for a coffee bar in a gas station,
for styrofoam cups & chats with grandfathers—
but I’m here , ain’t I?
so I buy an almond croissant,
have a seat, & eat.
& mercy…
does it balance out the bitterness.
An Arkansas native, Sarah Watkins is an educator by trade and a writer by necessity. She currently resides in northeast Arkansas with her husband. Her work has recently appeared in many publications, including The Applause Journal and Moss Puppy Magazine. She can be found on Instagram @sarahwatkinspoetry.