the hard sell

a new
barista is giving
you the hard
sell on coffee.
it's 7 a.m.
she asks you
if you drink coffee
at home, you nod
sullenly,
you are half asleep,
vulnerable in
a weakened
decaffeinated way.
yes, you say.
I do.
well, how about buying
five pounds
of French roast
to take home.
it's on sale.
we've taken off ten
cents a pound.
what, you say,
staring into
the shiny window
of pastries.
her voice is like
that of a
squirrel scampering
in your attic.
you hear her,
and yet don't want
to hear her.
she reaches across
the counter with a
surprisingly long
ethiopian arm
and shakes you,
hey, hey, she says.
do you want
the coffee or not.
I'm talking to you
mister. you can't ignore
me, where's your
car. I'm going
to wheel it out for
you. give me your
credit card.