Fuck You Very Much
The deafening sound of coffee grinding gives way to
the bourgeoisie ordering their daily grind
with impetuous disregard for the human at the bottom of their noses.
A fire as fake as that woman's tits crackles across the room adding the ambience they crave to
scarf down their croissants and scones to.
As they sip on cappuccinos made by invisible ghosts they chit chat about
who's kids are moving back in with who,
the botched Botox that their "friend" had done
and the best way to make more money on the backs of the downtrodden.
Like middle school girls that never matured
both husbands and wives come in at their own times
to drink down pretentiousness as they puke up unnecessary drivel.
Behind the espresso bar the dehumanized move about,
trying their hardest not to feel or take in the repeated jabs
of people who are so unhappy in their multimillion dollar mansions
that they have to take it out on those that can hardly afford their rent.
And in all this hostility I stand; eyes blank, spirit crushed, soul withered.
I steam milk until it burns my hands because this important executive wants his drink extra hot.
I use all my strength to muster a smile so that my greeting won't get me scolded for
how dare I not feel like smiling this early at people that are nothing but enemies.