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Welcome To The Coffee Shop ©

(Kyla G. Bingham, Oct-Nov 2014)

Welcome to the coffee shop. I’m your barista; please allow me to tell you about the menu.

Our house blend is an acquired fondness—quite bold and assertive—so if your tastes are delicate, I hope it doesn’t offend you.

Give it a chance to play on your tongue, refine your palate; don’t just hastily spit it out.

If you take a moment to savor its flavor and let it give you a jolt, it might just save you a carafe of complications and a decanter full of doubt.

Don’t turn away—this is no time for feigning ambivalence, rolling your eyes, being complacent.

If you’ll swallow the potion I’m offering, you’ll avoid a lifetime of serious debasement.

So please feel free to cozy up to the bar or find yourself a seat.

Or since we’ll be here for a bit perhaps you’ll prefer to warm yourself by the fire…go ahead and make yourself at home—kick off your shoes and prop up your feet.

Now that you’re settled, as I said this’ll take a minute because some things are percolating, some heavy truths are boiling over, ready to be spoken.

Like the fact that you keep listening to the seductive hiss and rattle of tantalizing words that quickly become promises broken.

Why? Why did you think that just because his kettle whistled for you that he was ready to fill your heart to overflowing like the fruition of your every dream?

Turns out he was just passing air through his lips so now you’re pissed and blowing steam.                 

Did you somehow think that giving everyone a dollop of your cream would make you more mature?

I’m sorry, love, but that reverie is curdled, and you are your own worst saboteur.

You fell for a sultry French kiss and a full body press.

And now like the potent, dark liquid that flows through a French press, your dignity is slowly drip, drip, dripping and pooling on the floor with your eagerly and easily discarded dress.

You give it up so easily so what do you expect?

Offering it all and passing out samples of your “cup of Joe” to every John so now all you have is a double shot of misery and a venti sized serving of disrespect.

Your java is interchangeable; they don’t care if you’re caramel, mocha, espresso or chai.

They just want the flavor of the day—don’t forget to add the whipped cream and chocolate syrup—drink you down and then a fast goodbye.

Wipe his mouth, then wad you up and discard you with the trash.

Then get back in line for another mouthful of low self-esteem and decisions that are rash.

What’s that in the bakery display case? Yeah, go head and wrap up a sticky bun and a scone.

Cuz as long as he feigns attention, nibbling on your confections and affections, you just won’t leave it alone.

By the way, this ain’t the only location he frequents—seems every corner has a franchise.

Here he’s a banker, there he’s a baller—he’s a sultan of subterfuge and a doyen of disguise.

And you keep falling for the ruse not realizing that doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome is the textbook definition of insanity.

Maybe you’re perfectly matched because you’re the queen of SSDD which leads to pregnancy and STD and the loss of your very humanity.

You need to snap out of it, change your M.O., and have a little bit of pride.

Because at the rate girls like you are going, it’s becoming self-inflicted “gendercide.

Now look at you all upset, froth just foaming from your lips.

Rabid because you should have made him buy the mug instead of handing out all those free testers and sips.

Did you even think to use a coaster? No, you didn’t. I see the evidence of your negligence in the form of rings of condensation.

You just charge through the chute like a mare to be mounted and totally skip the need for mental sublimation.

You don’t even bother with cognitive stimulation.

Don’t know the intense pleasure of a demitasse of tea with a side of penetrating conversation.

Perhaps you should consider falling in love between your ears instead of lust below your waist.

Perchance then you won’t have so many experiences you wish could be erased.

Your baseless carnality is empty…a study in ineffectuality.

There’s so much deeper and more lasting fulfillment in being an out and proud proponent of sapiosexuality.       

But you refuse to think first, you’re stuck in a loop of reckless action then regret that can at best be called illogical.

Actually, it’s beyond that; it’s a disease, and your behavior is pathological.

Once the deed is done, you can’t undo it no matter how you beg, steal or borrow.

It’s the unchangeable unilateral flow of time: it’s impossible to rewind to yesterday, and there be no such thing as tomorrow.

So there you have it, the straight, unsweetened brew, and though it was bitter and acidic, I hope you listened up and banked it.

Because there are no refunds on a beverage once you already drank it.

But sadly most ignore the expert suggestions of their well-meaning barista; the say she’s abrasive and curt.

They disregard that she’s studied well the proffered libations and human inclinations to opt for the cloyingly sweet—and so she helplessly watches as they reap the ensuing world of hurt.

Now you’re shattered on the ground, tears spilling and spreading all around like the fluid caffeine from a broken coffee cup.

No, you can’t change your mind and listen now.  Sorry the bell has already rung. Next in line, and as for you, “order up”.