Tables

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Tables is a personal poem about how I view the customers at where I work an 'unnamed' coffee shop. The customers are vile.

As I enter the shop I’m greeted by the aroma of burning,

 Left-over cheese cooking on the grills.

To my right, I see a queue of mothers using their womb as a place marker for a mad, carniverous dash to a table.

Quick, there she says

They go carrying bags of expensive rubbish and sit down making no sound.

The dirty tray sits on the table, while a Barista kindly, but sarcastically asks the womb whether they should take the tray.

no reply.

He takes it anyway – it sits in silence, waiting.

It’s my turn to order

Err… yes; I would like an iced vanilla lat—

What size?

Medium.

Okay that’s three pounds eighty pence.

I can’t make sense.

The mother and womb sit together, as the womb gets a blend of fruit and ice. The mother pours a huge cup of coffee down her fat throat, snorting and savouring the secret blend.

It’s hard to comprehend as you see all the other mothers and their wombs scavenging for tables, carrying trays full of over-priced, sugary, fatty air cakes topped off with cream.

I think to myself

I’m glad I got a takeout.


Submitted: October 21, 2013

© Copyright 2021 RestrainedFreedom. All rights reserved.

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