The Proper Grind

Home.
Then work.
Then me.
Waiting with a minty white sparkling smile
perky permenant and icily frozen,
blended with coffee talk and
vivacious flirtaciousness
as I wend those last few pennies
from sweating palms
into the tip jar
selling caffeinated culture, lattes,
and my soul on the side.
I am a roadside vendor of "class".
Ha.
I sell hot milk in cardboard cups
to men bulging with Vitamin D and Gold's Gym
fortified muscles
and too-tight outdoor adventure wear
wicking their
hurried from the double parked car
sweat.
Wick this.
Whatever happened to whisky shots,
and flannel?
By the Way.
Don't bring your
tall cool iced nonfat white chocolate girlfriend in here.
This is my territory, bitch.
Dirty little secret:
you're not always drinking that nonfat milk
you think you are.
What's the point,
you're gonna puke it up anyway,
spewing regurgitated lies past your
raspberry lips
honey macchiato hair
dripping in the bowl,
as you retch and purge
trash into the vanilla white
porcelain pee-hoe.
When he kisses you,
can he taste the vomit?
The lettuce and espresso
that was your lunchtime binge,
caught in your denture-straight
sparkling stainless steel teeth?
I didn't think so.
Hazelnut whore.
I'm onto you.