the perfectionist

you're a perfectionist
aren't you
I ask the barista as she makes
my coffee.

she measures carefully and seems
to count her stirs
with the little
stick

in the drink.
she's exact with the pour.

the opening of sugar packs.
the dollop of cream.

how perfectly she pushes
down the lid to make
it secure.

then slips on the sleeve
to keep it all warm.

she looks up and smiles.
I am she says.

I am, wiping the counter
with a clean
white cloth, over and over.

how could you know?