Starbuckette Revenge Fantasy


Sooner or later
in the inflamed gut of a mall near you
one espresso-caked, collapsing-on-her-feet
hour-past-my-supposed-break barista
has had enough.
She will no longer ask
if you’d like skim milk
or two percent.
She won’t offer the caramel drizzle
She’ll just pop the cap and dump
half a bottle of diabetes-inducing goop
into your diabetes-inducing drink
add a shake of chocolate rinds
a dash of chai and a healthy healthy york
of saliva and say “On the house!”
Order will disintegrate
faster than a frappucino morphs
into sugary soup, the furious clientelle
try to cling to the comfortable traditions of old,
but their coffeeslingers aren’t answering to
Tall, Grande or Venti anymore.
It was always Small, Medium, Large in their hearts.
As the Pillars of Customer Service
crumble like the Roman Empire
a hundred hundred Starbuckettes
frothing like the milk they churned
will tear their green aprons into armbands
and revolutionary flags
hijack the sound system and play
Nevermind The Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols
as loud as they possibly can
while they create an ad-hoc war tribunal
and charge petty middle managers
with squandering their time and talents
making lattes out of lifetimes.
And as the Democratic Republic of Stabucktica takes shape
The other minor lordlings of the Old Navy and the Cell Phone Shack
nervously gulp down their ten-dollar thai food
and lope back to their fiefdoms
to hold a very urgent meeting
about teamwork.



I bask brilliant in the rays of the field lights
Saturday night past two
Sitting on the thirty yard line with six cans of brew
coated in the dew
My knuckles bloody from dancing with the old brick walls
that held me still
and hold me still
and do you love me yet?

I let the needle drop on the Zeppelin Four
Black Dog gone growling ‘cross the kitchen floor
My Stairway to Heaven lead me to managing a Seven Eleven
These days I mumble but I used to roar
We took state champs back in Ninety-Four
Don’t nobody remember that anymore?
And do you love me yet?

I drank the cheapest beer out of the trophy grail
Stood ten feet tall taking that wellworn trail
Herded like cattle out to pasture then the fences failed
then we just stood waiting for the parade.
The greatest glory was the ones we made
now we’re waiting round thinking we’ve all been played

But we were kings back in Ninety-Four.
And now I’m staring at the well-mopped floor of the store
singing along with the radio forevermore
and do you love me yet?