Swizzle Stick

The One-Star Cafe of Death

Demurely I enter
The Cafe of Death,
holding my breath.
I’m killing time
& it’s killing me.

Bells tinkle gaily
with every opening.
Regular intake.
Ashes in the grate,
dust on the plates,
greasy plastic roses
faded red.

I sip the bitter coffee with
its oily rainbow sheen.

In The Cafe of Death,
it’s single origin.
No Robusta.
A moustache of crema
brackets your lip,
whose kiss of red
now sits on your cup

slighted by the Moka-Pot,
a complete pour-over.

Beware the biting
propellers of the blade
grinder. Hope the brew
was shade grown,
hope no shade thrown.
Hope it’s bird friendly.

Suck up the disappointment
of decaffeination, put your
complaints through filter method.

I grant one star
to The Cafe of Death
for slow service, long waits,
constant calls for final orders.
Nothing much happens.
At your table you wait.