Lounge music now floods the room,
its slow groove and soft volume
a bit too lulling for my taste,
turning the brown leather couch
with its invitingly soft cushions
into a trap for tired minds.
We are saved from
falling into a happy delirium
by the smell of fresh coffee,
and the impatient hiss
of the Italian coffee machine
busily grinding the dark beans
for the addicted crowds.
Judging by the artful symbols
he is patiently sketching
onto cappuccino canvasses,
the barista surely is one of those
moody, starving art students,
my mother gravely warned me about.
His cats, carefully drawn
into the soft white foam,
are a marvel, so pretty,
you hesitate for a moment
of appreciation followed by regret
as your spoon collides
with the aromatic liquid.
november child 