The Dalai Lama

The other morning
I asked my barrista,
jimmy, what he thought
about the economy,
the plight of the working
man. He winced and shook
his head as a cloud of steam
rose from the machine
he was pressing behind
the other machine. He
seemed to be wise beyond
his years and station
in life. His arms were
covered in a random mix
of celestial tatoos, blue stars,
a red moon, an orange sun.
He was always giving
sage advice, offering good-
will and cheer as he mixed
the endless variations
of lattes and frappacinos,
coffee and tea. Hot or cold.
Have a nice day, he'd say,
be careful out there in the
snow. It's slippery. Hey,
watch out, that coffee's hot.
He was easy going,
and bright, each drink
made to perfection,
or he'd apologize profusely,
hand you a gift card
and remake the drink
you ordered no matter
how long the line snaked
out the door. Sometimes
he'd stroke his thin goatee
while pondering the world
between customers.
His head kept swaying,
keeping a beat that only
he could hear. He was
the new dali lama, but with
a job and a green apron.