Amidst a dense impenetrable mist,
A hillside overgrown with rainforest,
The leaves above a green you’ve never seen,
Around you, rows and rows of coffee beans.
Picked by the folk of a village nearby,
Removed from their cherries and set out to
dry,
Sorted and shipped off a half world away,
Magic beans are delivered to every café.
They are roasted and packed and eventually
ground,
They sell at the counter for fifteen a pound.
I, the barista, the very last act,
Make certain each shot is exquisitely packed
With the subtle precision the coffee demands
Of my weathering callused espresso-stained
hands.
“Marina, cappuccino extra hot,
I hope that coffee hits the spot.”
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