The Barista

Afternoons pass like dark cups of coffee.
Barista’s etched a mural on a face of froth,
wishes me welcome with a trace of something
like sadness. Over time, he’s worked his way into

turning his back on patrons, smiling through
mural art. One day, I caught a koala bear

dozing on brown rock, missing dot on a paw.
It woke – its belly halfway gone into the maw

of my abyss. Dark froth gurgles the way empty
afternoons do. Perhaps a giggle at empty
expressions a barista’s bear-like face can bear.

He turns, udders more froth from a coffee-time-
machine, squeezes once more the giant pen,
creams in waves over another fresh coffee.