1
When decaf last in the percolator brew’d,
And the bright sun early rose in the eastern sky in the morn,
I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning dawn.
Ever-returning dawn, trinity sure to me you bring,
Decaf brewing daily and drooping lids o’er my eyes,
And thought of the bed I love.
2
O powerful morning brew!
O shades of dawn–O moody, crabby dawn!
O caffeinated brew disappear’d–O the black murk that fills my cup!
O cruel barista that holds me powerless–O helpless soul of me!
O harsh surrounding crowd that jostles me along.
3
Behind the counter guarding an old espresso-maker near the coffee-stain’d counters
Stands the barista overwhelmed with company apron of rich green,
With many a shouted name ringing clamorous, with the perfume strong I love,
With every cup a miracle–and by this barista behind the counter,
With hurried orders and company apron of rich green,
A cup with decaf I am given.
4
In the Starbucks in secluded break-rooms,
An overcome and hidden barista is taking a nap.
Solitary the brewer,
The hermit withdrawn to herself, avoiding the morning rush,
Takes by herself a nap.
Nap of mid-morning fatigue,
Barista’s refuge and nap of life–for well dear sister I know,
If thou wast not granted a break thou would’st surely die!
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