Post by goldenmyst on Nov 11, 2018 19:27:45 GMT -6
Barista Girls by Night
The pretty maidens all in a row are garbed in dangerously high skirts. These barista girls are happy to serve and please their patrons with their lipstick pouts.
I stand in line, at the Coffee House, with a Blondie college girl. My mind is sunk deep in my inner sea. Her voice says, “Doesn’t that cake look delicious?” I’m not expecting the luck of a lovely’s attention. She points to me and says “Sir.” She repeats her sultry intonation “Doesn’t that cake look delicious?”
I focus on her freshman's face. I vocalize agreement with her on the dessert’s delectableness. I am stunned by her flirtatious inflection and wonder if this is my lucky day. Perhaps she is a spring flower in search of an autumn gent.
She strikes up a conversation by asking me if I ever order pastries?
I fumble my words “I get bagels.” She makes an ugh face as she recedes. Coffee will be my consolation prize.
My angel of coffee stands behind the glass
pastry shelves and takes my order. Her corona of golden curls glows in haloed luster. Her belly button is displayed like a magic mushroom afloat in a field of ivory. I gaze upon her curves like an art patron in a Louvre of the mind. Then I retreat to the patio to await her offering of beverage.
My smiling coffee shop girl emerges into the dark night where I await her womanly presence like a pilgrim awaiting a visitation of Madonna. She bears my brew. She ascends the steps like a gymnast walking a bar. Holding the cup, she flamenco hip struts with her eyes glazed like a priestess in the throes of Orphic mysteries.
She dips down kissing close and places the mug on the table. Her lips sing “enjoy” and “goodnight.” She descends on winged feet.
She beams back from the door “Goodnight.”
Like a comet, I am drawn back to the fount of my coffee. I am served by a Latina angel. Our eyes make love over the glass pastry shelves. I place my desire upon her counter. She fills it with pleasure.
In my mind’s eye, I see her undress for a siesta to feel the cool breeze on her skin. She lies down on her stomach. Her softness melts into the mattress. Her twin mocha moons glisten with beads of body dew. But we are here in this place of refreshment.
I wait under the black velvet sky for her. She emerges from coffee shadows into my patio of palms and flowers. She ascends the steps while squatted as though dancing with the moon. Her smile sparkles like champagne. In her hands, she holds holy coffee. The sun between her legs is hidden by a denim eclipse. Her smile melts the glacier of my solitude.
She dips like a sandpiper to serve me steaming brew. She places the grail of coffee upon the altar of my table. She plants her love seed “Enjoy” in my secret garden. Her calypso eyes peer into my oblivion to smolder my soul with elegant embers of conga coquetry. Her aura wraps me in a feathered trance. My gaze follows her flight until the door closes behind her.
The hourglass sands empty into eternity. The sacred space is to close forever. It is to be deconsecrated into a restaurant. One day a coffee shop girl’s smile opens up doorways to heaven in the sunken labyrinth of my heart. She holds in her hands the water of life. I reach out to grasp it so she can let go. The lullaby of her lilt tells me it is ok to say goodbye; that we’ll meet again in another life; when coffee flows like a river to fill my thirsty loneliness. I sit under the vaulted ceilings which form this church of coffee where I worship the female mystique.
On Christmas Eve the Coffee Shop’s iconic, jasmine-covered iron gates shut. The last mug of a brew is served. But beauty endures; though she lies wounded; struck down by the sword of greed.
A bewildered flower girl, who roams the neighborhood in search of Bohemia, lays a wisteria wreath upon the iron portals of Eden lost.
An angel holds the girl’s hand and opens the gates. The heavenly companion leads the girl into the coffee shrine. The lass awakens at her table to see students reading books, pecking keyboards, and huddled in groups around tables. The golden thread to the future lies ahead.
The flower girl is greeted by a magnolia child who beams forest love. This worker glows a tupelo honey smile which is sweet as sassafras tea. Her camellia hands serve starry-eyed students lost in the Arcadia of youth. They dip their tongues into sacramental bean beverages to taste the collectivist dream of mocha freedom. A steaming mug is offered in china doll hands to the bohemian damsel of the brew.
The pretty maidens all in a row are garbed in dangerously high skirts. These barista girls are happy to serve and please their patrons with their lipstick pouts.
I stand in line, at the Coffee House, with a Blondie college girl. My mind is sunk deep in my inner sea. Her voice says, “Doesn’t that cake look delicious?” I’m not expecting the luck of a lovely’s attention. She points to me and says “Sir.” She repeats her sultry intonation “Doesn’t that cake look delicious?”
I focus on her freshman's face. I vocalize agreement with her on the dessert’s delectableness. I am stunned by her flirtatious inflection and wonder if this is my lucky day. Perhaps she is a spring flower in search of an autumn gent.
She strikes up a conversation by asking me if I ever order pastries?
I fumble my words “I get bagels.” She makes an ugh face as she recedes. Coffee will be my consolation prize.
My angel of coffee stands behind the glass
pastry shelves and takes my order. Her corona of golden curls glows in haloed luster. Her belly button is displayed like a magic mushroom afloat in a field of ivory. I gaze upon her curves like an art patron in a Louvre of the mind. Then I retreat to the patio to await her offering of beverage.
My smiling coffee shop girl emerges into the dark night where I await her womanly presence like a pilgrim awaiting a visitation of Madonna. She bears my brew. She ascends the steps like a gymnast walking a bar. Holding the cup, she flamenco hip struts with her eyes glazed like a priestess in the throes of Orphic mysteries.
She dips down kissing close and places the mug on the table. Her lips sing “enjoy” and “goodnight.” She descends on winged feet.
She beams back from the door “Goodnight.”
Like a comet, I am drawn back to the fount of my coffee. I am served by a Latina angel. Our eyes make love over the glass pastry shelves. I place my desire upon her counter. She fills it with pleasure.
In my mind’s eye, I see her undress for a siesta to feel the cool breeze on her skin. She lies down on her stomach. Her softness melts into the mattress. Her twin mocha moons glisten with beads of body dew. But we are here in this place of refreshment.
I wait under the black velvet sky for her. She emerges from coffee shadows into my patio of palms and flowers. She ascends the steps while squatted as though dancing with the moon. Her smile sparkles like champagne. In her hands, she holds holy coffee. The sun between her legs is hidden by a denim eclipse. Her smile melts the glacier of my solitude.
She dips like a sandpiper to serve me steaming brew. She places the grail of coffee upon the altar of my table. She plants her love seed “Enjoy” in my secret garden. Her calypso eyes peer into my oblivion to smolder my soul with elegant embers of conga coquetry. Her aura wraps me in a feathered trance. My gaze follows her flight until the door closes behind her.
The hourglass sands empty into eternity. The sacred space is to close forever. It is to be deconsecrated into a restaurant. One day a coffee shop girl’s smile opens up doorways to heaven in the sunken labyrinth of my heart. She holds in her hands the water of life. I reach out to grasp it so she can let go. The lullaby of her lilt tells me it is ok to say goodbye; that we’ll meet again in another life; when coffee flows like a river to fill my thirsty loneliness. I sit under the vaulted ceilings which form this church of coffee where I worship the female mystique.
On Christmas Eve the Coffee Shop’s iconic, jasmine-covered iron gates shut. The last mug of a brew is served. But beauty endures; though she lies wounded; struck down by the sword of greed.
A bewildered flower girl, who roams the neighborhood in search of Bohemia, lays a wisteria wreath upon the iron portals of Eden lost.
An angel holds the girl’s hand and opens the gates. The heavenly companion leads the girl into the coffee shrine. The lass awakens at her table to see students reading books, pecking keyboards, and huddled in groups around tables. The golden thread to the future lies ahead.
The flower girl is greeted by a magnolia child who beams forest love. This worker glows a tupelo honey smile which is sweet as sassafras tea. Her camellia hands serve starry-eyed students lost in the Arcadia of youth. They dip their tongues into sacramental bean beverages to taste the collectivist dream of mocha freedom. A steaming mug is offered in china doll hands to the bohemian damsel of the brew.
