Over clinking crockery and porcelian tea pots,

I froth milk and pour coffee into your white china cups

with your matching white china saucer

and complimentary oatmeal biscuit

Shaking chocolate flakes into heart shapes, or circling liquid caramel shots,

or netting cream from an aerosol into your hot chocolate with the

express desire of keeping you happy and warm,

with a smile on my face and tea stains on my fingers.

And in the evening, when I clear the trays and tables and

stack the chairs against the wall, sometimes

I remember when I thought I was worth more than this.

When the sky was the limit and

I had to aim high.

But I am not worth more than this.

And I need to pay the bills.