Sweet, glazed air
With buttercream frosting.
Protection from the ice outside.
The Regulars idle in their respective spots.
The businessman, scrolling down his Blackberry,
Eyebrows furrowed as he stares into the swirled mocha.
The tired woman, impatiently tapping her foot in line.
All she wants is a black coffee.
No cream.
No sugar.
The college student with dark-rimmed eyes,
Hunched over his Mac book,
A dozen and a half papers fluttering over his booth.
His just finished his third Breve.
The couple’s in a corner,
Huddled by the heater,
Snuggled over French Vanilla Lattes.
I press syrup into Styrofoam,
Hardly minding the scones and jar of quarters,
Watching my family
That I know
And yet
--don’t.